


Oh, Be For Me The Sky

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [23]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff, Injury Recovery, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Kissing, Slow Burn, Sparring, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Dragonfly of the Cat School is expecting a fair number of things from a patrol through the Wolf's Redania, but a bedraggled and injured noblewoman isn't one of them.Oliwia just needs to get to Kaer Morhen, to the sanctuary she desperately hopes to find there. Being taken under the protection of a Cat Witcher wasn't part of the plan, but Dragonfly is a startlingly compelling companion.
Relationships: Dragonfly (The Witcher)/Original Female Character
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 1020
Kudos: 3176





	1. Chapter 1

Dragonfly quite likes being out on patrol: getting to stretch her legs, getting to kill some monsters and maybe even some men who deserve it, getting to spend a little time in a brothel now and again - Kaer Morhen is, of course, full of all the handsome men a girl could ever want, and Rach and Vesper take full advantage of that, but if you’re not particularly _interested_ in handsome men, there’s a certain dearth of bedmates available. Oh, there’s the servants, but Dragonfly isn’t _that_ much of an asshole, and she’s wary of sorceresses, as any sensible Witcher ought to be. So yeah, maybe being out on patrol means trail biscuit and dried jerky and a distinct lack of hot springs, but there are compensations.

She and Kolgrim and Ealdred and Gweld have been doing a jaunt through the Wolf’s Redania; pleasant enough lands, these days, if still a little twitchier about Witchers than they are in Kaedwen or Caingorn. Not a _lot_ of monsters, but they picked up a couple of bruxae a few days ago and a noonwraith a few days before that, and a nasty human piece of work who thought he could kill peasant girls with impunity a few days before _that_ , who the boys let Dragonfly finish off, so Dragonfly is feeling pretty content with the world. They’ve stopped for the night in a little village within sight of the border, which has a decent tavern but not much else to recommend it, and Dragonfly leaves the boys to a Gwent tournament and wanders out into the pleasant summer evening, the sun still just kissing the horizon despite the late hour. The village street - it only has the one - is pretty much deserted; almost everyone is already at home for the night, shutters drawn so they can get some sleep.

So the person limping towards the village from the direction of the Redanian border draws Dragonfly’s eyes immediately.

It’s a young woman, small and dark and slightly built, in truly filthy clothing, and she walks like she’s got blisters on both feet and hasn’t had any sleep in three days - an experience Dragonfly has _had_ , when she was much younger, and doesn’t care to ever repeat. She’s staring down at the road, clearly putting all her effort into placing one foot in front of the other. She doesn’t look up until she stumbles into the shadow of one of the houses where it stretches across the road, and then her eyes light on Dragonfly and she blinks a few times, as though she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

Dragonfly waits for the scream, the cringing, the staggering attempt at flight.

Instead, the girl’s eyes go wide and she stumbles _forward_ , towards Dragonfly, and drops to her knees in the dust of the road, clasping her hands and staring up at Dragonfly with enormous green eyes full of hope.

“Witcher,” she breathes. “Witcher, do you serve the White Wolf?”

“I do,” Dragonfly says, more than a little taken aback.

“I beg you,” the girl says, “in his name, will you grant me sanctuary?”

“What the _fuck_ ,” says Dragonfly. Sanctuary? Is that a thing they’re doing now? Sanctuary from _what?_ \- and from the way this girl talks, for all her battered clothes and filthy hair, she’s as noble as Jaskier and Milena are. Since when do noblewomen in peasant clothing show up begging the Wolf for sanctuary?

“Please,” the girl whispers. “Please, gracious Witcher.”

“Oh, stop groveling,” Dragonfly says, deeply uncomfortable with everything about this, and leans down to hook a hand under the girl’s arm and pull her to her feet. She’s tiny, barely reaching Dragonfly’s chin, and seems to weigh less than one of Dragonfly’s swords. “Fine. Sanctuary. I’ll bring you to the Wolf, and he can figure out what to do with you.”

“Thank you,” the girl whispers, and sways on her feet, clearly about to collapse again. Dragonfly bites off a curse, sighs, and picks her up, looping one arm under her legs and the other around her back. The girl squeaks and then _relaxes_ , which is quite disconcerting: even people who _like_ seeing Witchers around don’t usually react so well to being _touched_ , much less picked up.

“Ah, fuck,” Dragonfly sighs, and carries the girl back to the tavern. The innkeeper gives her a very odd look when she comes in, and Ealdred gets up at once and comes over.

“Contract?” he asks.

“Nah,” Dragonfly says. “Wants sanctuary from the Wolf. Feet’re bleeding.” She can smell it, the coppery scent hanging thick in the air. “Girl, Ealdred’s a bit of a healer. Mind if he looks you over?”

“If you think it best,” the girl says hesitantly, and Dragonfly realizes she’s clinging to Dragonfly’s pauldron with one slender hand, and _now_ she smells of fear. Ah. Shit.

“Tell you what,” she says. “He can tell me what to do, but I’ll do it.”

The girl relaxes at once. “Thank you, gracious Witcher,” she murmurs, and Dragonfly meets Ealdred’s eyes and shares a look of complete bafflement with him. Even in Kaedwen, nobody’s _that_ polite to Witchers.

“I’m Dragonfly,” she tells the girl. “Not ‘gracious Witcher.’”

“...Call me Livi,” the girl says, which is true but not the whole truth, if Dragonfly’s nose can be believed. “Gracious Dragonfly.”

Dragonfly snorts, and carries the girl up to the attic room she’d laid claim to: small, but private, and privacy is a pleasant luxury on the road. Ealdred stops by the rather larger room the boys are sharing to collect his healing supplies, and follows her up.

The girl’s feet, when Dragonfly gets the ill-fitting boots off of them, are as badly battered as Dragonfly’s ever seen. Ealdred hisses between his teeth, and passes her wet cloths and bandages and a little jar of healing salve, and Livi sits very still on the edge of Dragonfly’s bed and does her best not to flinch at Dragonfly’s slightly clumsy ministrations.

“You need thicker socks if you’re going to wear those,” Dragonfly informs her. “Or, y’know, boots that fit, if you’re going to be walking across Redania.”

“They were the best I could find,” Livi says, voice tiny, and Dragonfly can smell a hint of saltwater - shit, the girl’s going to start _crying_. Dragonfly wasn’t _trying_ to be mean.

“We’ll find you better,” she says gruffly. “Ealdred, go get the innkeeper to send up whatever this place has for a tub.”

“Yes ma’am,” Ealdred says, sounding amused, and goes tromping off down the stairs, making enough noise that even a human can hear it.

“You hurt anywhere else?” Dragonfly asks. Livi shakes her head. “Hungry?”

The girl’s stomach growls before she can answer, and she covers her face with her hands in embarrassment. Dragonfly shakes her head and gets up to stick her head out the door and snap, “Oy, Gweld, bring up a bowl of soup.” She doesn’t bother to raise her voice; she can hear the boys perfectly well, Ealdred haggling with the innkeeper for a tub of hot water and Kolgrim fleecing some unlucky hick at Gwent and Gweld telling a tall tale about sirens, so they can hear her, too. Sure enough, Gweld breaks off his story to order a bowl of soup from someone. Dragonfly closes the door again. “Soup and a bath’ll be up in a few.”

“Thank you, gracious Dragonfly,” Livi whispers. “I cannot repay you for your kindness.”

Dragonfly leans against the wall beside the door, eyeing the girl dubiously. “Didn’t ask for repayment, girl. Wolf sends us out with plenty of coin. And it’s just Dragonfly - I’ve never been gracious in my life. Dragonfly of the Cat School, if you want the full thing.”

“I - I didn’t know there _were_ female Witchers,” Livi confesses. “Are all of the Cat School female?”

Dragonfly snorts. “Nah. Just me and two others, in the Cats. The old cowards who ran the Trials didn’t like using girls much; we were an experiment. And there’s Serrit in the Vipers, too, but that’s it for female Witchers.”

“Oh,” Livi says, eyes wide. “Being an experiment sounds...dreadful.”

Dragonfly shrugs. “It is what it is.” She tugs the door open before Ealdred can knock, and takes the tub from him. Gweld waits politely until she’s gotten the tub set down in the scant space near the chimney before handing _her_ the soup, leaving plenty of space between him and Livi. Good lad; the Wolves do tend to be sweethearts under all the bristle, honestly, and if Dragonfly _liked_ men she might have given Gweld a tumble at some point in the last few decades, assuming she didn’t mind pissing Serrit off.

He even closes the door on the way out. There’s a reason she doesn’t mind being on patrol with him; honestly, all three of the boys she’s with this time are decent company, and she hasn’t had to spend any patrols with Einri and Jerome in years. Eskel’s charts are actually proving themselves useful.

Livi’s smart enough to drink the soup in little sips, spacing them out carefully, and sets the bowl down with a little left in it. “I don’t think I ought to have any more,” she says reluctantly.

“Sensible girl,” Dragonfly nods. “Want me to stick around while you bathe, or no?”

“Ah,” Livi says, and glances at the door, and swallows hard. “Would you mind staying? Please?”

“I don’t mind, but you might,” Dragonfly says thoughtfully. “You’re twitchy around men. Had trouble on the way here?”

“Yes,” Livi whispers. “I didn’t - I got away, but -”

Dragonfly nods, mildly impressed. _She’s_ always been able to get away from such situations, but she’s a Witcher. Comes right down to it, she can just start gutting people, and occasionally has. Livi pretty clearly can’t defend herself at _all_. She must’ve been quick and clever, then, to keep herself safe.

“Right, well, I’ll stick around and stand guard,” she says. “But you should know I prefer women, so…” she shrugs. “Might not want me in the room, if you’re twitchy about that.” Some people are, some people don’t care, and Dragonfly’s never been able to predict which will be which.

Livi blinks at her for a few minutes. “...Prefer women?” she says at last, and Dragonfly puts a hand over her face. _Or_ the girl could be so damn sheltered she doesn’t even know what Dragonfly _means_ , that’s apparently also an option. Definitely a noble, then, and one who didn’t get sent off to a temple school.

“Look, I’ll sit outside the door, no one will come in; try not to get your feet wet, and sing out if you get into trouble,” Dragonfly sighs, and slides out the door before Livi can ask any more questions. She sits down with her back against the wood and listens to the soft rustling of Livi undressing, the splash as she sinks into the water, a soft gasp, more splashing. She’d tune it out, but the chances of the girl falling asleep in the water are a little too high, and that way drowning lies. Ealdred comes padding up the stairs, Witcher-quiet, and hands her a small heap of clothing, a loose shirt and a skirt that probably used to belong to the innkeeper’s wife or daughter. Dragonfly nods her thanks, and he pads back down again, and a few minutes later he and Kolgrim start arguing about Gwent, which is pleasingly normal.

After a while the splashing stops, and there’s a brief silence, and then, soft and plaintive, “Ah - Lady Dragonfly? If you can hear me? I - am not sure I can get out without soaking my feet.”

“Fuck,” Dragonfly sighs, and gets up. Livi has draped her feet over the edge of the tub, and looks rather like a bedraggled cat, all slicked-down hair and big eyes. Dragonfly tries to look only at her face as she hauls her out of the tub and wraps her in a bath sheet and sits her down on the bed, and puts the tub outside for the innkeeper to collect.

Livi looks a lot better clean and dry and wearing clothing that isn’t caked with dirt, though she also looks half-dead of exhaustion; she’s swaying where she sits. Dragonfly sighs. “Sleep, girl,” she says. “I’ll keep watch.” A night of meditation won’t hurt her any.

“Thank you, Lady Dragonfly,” Livi whispers, and curls up, and is asleep pretty much instantly. Dragonfly shakes her head and settles down in front of the door, sinking easily into meditation to the soft rhythm of Livi’s breaths and the familiar noise of Ealdred and Kolgrim debating the best Gwent cards while Gweld laughs at them both.

*

Oliwia wakes up warm, in a soft bed, and for a single terrible moment, she thinks the last month has been a dream, that she is still at home in her own bed, and tomorrow will be her wedding day.

Then she moves, and every muscle in her body screams in agony, and her feet both twinge like she’s walked across hot coals, and she remembers: Lady Dragonfly of the Cat School, and the first bath she’s had in a _month_ , and being given Lady Dragonfly’s own bed. She opens her eyes slowly, and sees Lady Dragonfly kneeling in front of the door, eyes closed and hands lax on her thighs, breathing deep and slow. Her tawny hair is braided back tightly, and her face is utterly calm. There’s a scar down one cheek that looks old and faded, and another through the opposite eyebrow. Oliwia can’t imagine how much those must have hurt, but - for a Witcher, maybe it didn’t hurt at all.

She looks like she’s been there all night. Oliwia swallows hard, gratitude and embarrassment warring for pride of place. She tries to sit up - if nothing else, she needs to see if there’s a chamberpot under the bed - and makes a deeply undignified squeaking noise as her arms give out halfway through pushing herself up. Lady Dragonfly’s eyes open.

“Stiffen up overnight?” she asks, and rises to her feet with a fluid grace, apparently unconcerned by any such problems herself, even though _she_ spent the night fully armored with her swords on her back. “Stretch a bit, it’ll hurt like hell but it’ll help.”

Oliwia nods and obeys, and it does in fact hurt like hell, but she grits her teeth and ignores the tears that leak out despite her best efforts, and sure enough after a few minutes of agony she feels like she might actually be able to sit up.

There is, in fact, a chamberpot beneath the bed, and Lady Dragonfly kindly steps out onto the landing to give her privacy to use it. Oliwia lids it and pushes it back under the bed and rinses her hands in the basin by the bed, and then makes the error of trying to stand up.

It’s like standing on razors. She collapses back onto the bed with a little cry, and the door opens at once. Lady Dragonfly looks her over and nods and picks her up, just like she did last night, cradling her like a child or a bride.

“Feet take a while to heal,” she says gruffly, carrying Oliwia down the stairs without any apparent effort. “Don’t try to stand for a while.” She deposits Oliwia gently on a chair down in the common room, at the same table as three big men - three Witchers, Oliwia realizes, seeing the yellow eyes and the swords. One is the redhead who brought her soup, another is the lean brown-haired man who had medical supplies, and the third is a bulky man with black hair drawn up into a topknot. All of them have different medallions, too: the redhead has a snarling wolf, the brunet has a rampant griffin, and the black-haired man has a coiled snake. Lady Dragonfly has a cat’s head, fangs bared.

“Gweld of the Wolves, Ealdred of the Griffins, Kolgrim of the Vipers,” Lady Dragonfly says, gesturing at them. Gweld drags another chair over for Lady Dragonfly, and the innkeeper comes over with five bowls of oat porridge. “This’s Livi, apparently.”

“It is an honor to meet you all,” Oliwia says timidly. The three male Witchers eye her thoughtfully for a moment. She shrinks down a little lower in her chair, trying to make herself as small and unobtrusive as possible.

“So the Wolf’s collecting nobles now,” Kolgrim says at last. “Huh. You gonna carry her all the way back to Kaer Morhen, Dragonfly?” Oliwia winces: she hadn’t thought it was _that_ obvious she was of noble birth. She’s certainly not wearing any finery!

“Nah,” Dragonfly says. “Buy a mule once the town wakes up.” Oliwia winces again. She doesn’t mean to cost Lady Dragonfly so much - her bed, new clothing, a _mule_ -

“Eh, yeah, makes sense,” Ealdred says cheerfully. “Can you ride, Livi-girl?”

Oliwia nods hesitantly. “I can, but - ah - only sidesaddle,” she says.

“Huh,” Gweld says. “Well. Dunno if they’ll have a sidesaddle in a village this small. Think you can learn to ride astride?”

“...If the other option is walking, yes, my lord,” Oliwia says. Riding astride - gods, what a scandal! But then, she ran away from her wedding. She’s already about as scandalous as she can get. “I might - ah - need trousers?”

“Sure, we can do that,” Gweld agrees.

“More comfortable anyhow,” Lady Dragonfly puts in. “Better for traveling. I’ll take her for breeches, you boys get us a mule, meet you out front of the tavern in an hour.”

“Deal,” Ealdred says, grinning, and Oliwia hastily finishes the last of her oat porridge - it’s rather overcooked, but far better than anything she’s been able to scrounge for the last month, so she’s not complaining - and then Dragonfly is lifting her again, as easily as a feather.

“How strong _are_ you, Lady Dragonfly?” she asks hesitantly.

“Eh, could carry Kolgrim all day if I had to,” Lady Dragonfly says, shrugging a little. “And knock it off with the ‘lady,’ hey? I’m a Witcher, not a noble.”

“Yes, Dragonfly,” Oliwia says meekly. She was trying to be polite, but - well. Witchers are so very different from everything she knows.

Which is the point, after all. Any _other_ court in the land would just send her back to Redania and her betrothed. She’s staking her life on the hope that the White Wolf’s court is different enough that they will be willing to let her stay.

They let Milena stay, even though her father was _furious_. And Milena has mentioned in her letters, that the White Wolf has sworn that his daughter will never marry against her will. And in the Wolf’s lands, Oliwia knows, there are laws about forcing _anyone_ into marriage, though whether they’re actually _obeyed_ is a different question - as well as whether they’d even _apply_ to a girl from unconquered Redania. But between Milena’s letters and Consort Jaskier’s insistence, that night in Tretogor, that the White Wolf is a man of honor, a truly noble king...well, it’s a hope, even if it is a slim one, and Oliwia has hung her future on it. There is no point in second-guessing herself _now_.

Dragonfly carries her across the street to a tiny tailor’s shop, and haggles cheerfully for a couple of pairs of secondhand trousers that will be roughly the right size for Oliwia, and then for a few minutes in the back room for Oliwia to get changed. By the time they come out, the other three Witchers are waiting out front, surrounding a very patient-looking mule. “Brought your packs,” Gweld says to Dragonfly, who nods and lifts Oliwia gently into place on the mule’s back.

“Right,” she says briskly, swinging the packs onto her own back and giving Oliwia a sharp grin. “Onward.” She takes the mule’s reins and sets off at a trot, east along the road. The other three Witchers fall in, Gweld to Oliwia’s right and Ealdred to her left and Kolgrim a ways behind the mule, and Oliwia wraps her hands around the pommel of the saddle and hangs on. Riding astride is _very_ different to riding sidesaddle, and she can’t exactly use the stirrups without putting pressure on her sore feet, bare but for the bandages wrapping them, so she does her best to cling with her knees, and hopes this will get easier as the days go on.

By the time they stop for dinner, Oliwia feels rather like her legs are made of cooked noodles, and her hands are aching from her white-knuckled grip on the saddle. Dragonfly lifts her down from the saddle and sits her on a mossy patch of ground under a tree, and Gweld hands her a piece of what might be bread and a bit of dried meat and a handful of dried fruits while Ealdred tends to the mule, and then all four Witchers move into the center of the clearing and draw their steel swords and begin trying to kill each other.

Oliwia crams her knuckles into her mouth to muffle her scream, and after a few moments realizes that they are not, in fact, attempting murder. Their swords rarely connect, and when they do, it’s flat-on rather than edge-first. The Witchers heckle each other with what Oliwia certainly hopes are friendly insults, and intersperse their sword-blows with shimmering blue waves of magic that knock each other backwards, or glowing golden shields that deflect the blows easily. It’s fascinating and oddly _beautiful_ , really. Like the world’s most violent dance.

She eats her lunch almost without tasting it, too fascinated by watching the Witchers.

She finds her gaze drawn to _Dragonfly_ , especially, though she’s not sure why - perhaps it is only that Dragonfly has set herself up as Oliwia’s protector, even from the other Witchers if the need arises. She’s smaller than any of the men, though not by much: she’s tall and lean, barely an inch shorter than Ealdred, and her shoulders aren’t much narrower than his, either. But she’s still much lighter than the men, and she uses that to her advantage, dodging agilely away from their strikes and returning their blows with astonishing speed. She’s _grinning_ , her teeth gleaming in the noonday sun, like this is the most pleasant way she can think of to spend her dinner break.

She’s not necessarily a beautiful woman by Redanian standards - too tall, too muscular, and _much_ too scarred - but Oliwia can’t help thinking that she’s _gorgeous_ , all sleek strength and graceful ferocity. And dangerous, too - very, very dangerous. As skilled and deadly as any of the three male Witchers, and maybe more.

She watches Dragonfly until the bout comes to an end, and only then realizes that she’s been staring, and looks down at her hands hastily before the Witchers can notice her discourtesy.

“Almost got you on that one, Gweld,” Dragonfly says, as the Witchers dig more food out of their packs. “You gotta mind that low guard.”

“Sneaky fucking Cats,” Gweld says, but he’s grinning.

“Better sneaky than dead,” Dragonfly says cheerfully, and tosses a waterskin to Oliwia, who fumbles a bit but manages to catch it after a rather panicked moment. “Ah, shit, sorry, Livi.”

“It’s fine,” Oliwia says, and takes a long drink; rather warm water is not the best thing in the world, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being thirsty.

“Need a bush?” Dragonfly checks. Oliwia can feel herself blushing.

“Yes,” she says, voice very small. Dragonfly chuckles and comes over to pick her up, carrying her off into the woods a fair distance before setting her down on a small boulder and walking away a little distance.

Oliwia relieves herself, blushing hotly, and Dragonfly comes back a few minutes later and carries her back. Someone has tacked the mule back up; Dragonfly puts Oliwia gently down on its back, and Oliwia does her best not to wince. She aches _everywhere_ : legs, feet, hands, back, _bottom_ -

But she clamps her lips shut and refuses to make any noise of complaint. The Witchers are taking her to the White Wolf and her only hope of sanctuary. She’s already caused them enough trouble, enough expense. She won’t make this any more difficult for them than she absolutely must. If she does - well, she doesn’t think they’ll abandon her, not when Dragonfly has promised to bring her to Kaer Morhen, but traveling with four _angry_ Witchers sounds like an absolutely horrible idea. And - and there’s only one of Dragonfly, after all. If the three men decide they don’t want to deal with Oliwia’s weakness slowing them down - well, she doesn’t want to find out where that line might be.

“Onward,” Dragonfly says, and they head on down the road.

Oliwia grits her teeth and hangs on. If nothing else, at least she can be grateful that in the Warlord’s lands, the roads are relatively smooth.


	2. Chapter 2

Dragonfly lifts the girl down off the mule in the late-summer evening, and Livi makes a tiny bitten-off sound of pain. “Your feet giving you trouble?” Dragonfly checks, settling Livi on a bedroll as the boys set up the rest of the camp and get the mule picketed near a lush patch of grass.

Livi looks down, flushing with what smells like shame. “It - it is nothing, really.”

“None of that,” Dragonfly says, crouching down in front of her and touching her chin to make her look up. “We’re none of us used to traveling with a human, girl. You’ve got to _tell_ us if something’s not right. Now, where are you hurt?”

“I’m - I’m just sore,” Livi says meekly. “I’m not used to riding astride, nor for so long.”

“Ah,” Dragonfly says. Oops. “Right, hang on. Ealdred, you got any of Merigold’s human-safe pain potions?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ealdred says, and roots around in his pack for a moment before tossing a vial and a little tin of salve towards her. Dragonfly snags them and settles down cross-legged in front of Livi.

“Here, drink that, and let me have a look at your feet; by then Kolgrim oughta have caught something, and you can eat before you sleep.”

Livi drinks the potion obediently, but she must have been in a lot more pain than Dragonfly realized - or a lot more exhausted - because she manages to fall asleep _while_ Dragonfly is tending her feet. “Ealdred? Let her sleep, or no?”

“Let her sleep till the food’s ready,” Ealdred says, and comes over to stand beside Dragonfly, looking at the girl curled up on the ground, head pillowed on one too-thin arm. “I wonder what she is fleeing?”

Dragonfly sighs and straightens. “If I had to guess? A man. Father, husband...both.”

Ealdred winces. “Why so?”

“She’s a noble,” Dragonfly shrugs. “Bout the only thing that _can_ threaten a noble girl is a lord. Specially enough to scare her so much she comes running to the _Wolf_. Look at her: she’s never slept rough in her life, before whatever scared her so, she’s half-starved, and she left without even decent _boots_. That says whatever she’s running from, it scared her worse’n dying on the road.” She grimaces. “The only monsters that eat noble girls are men.”

“I wish you were wrong, my friend,” Ealdred says ruefully. “Yet I cannot find fault in your logic.” He sighs. “Perhaps it is time for the Wolf to finish conquering Redania, if its king cannot protect even the _noble_ girls from its lords’ depredations.”

“Won’t get any argument from me,” Dragonfly snorts. Sure, the Wolf and his council are still busy digesting _Temeria_ , but what’s another kingdom more or less, in an empire as broad as the Wolf’s has become?

Gods, but the girl looks small. She’s a frail little thing, made frailer by the lack of food on her journey so far, with sleek dark hair and walnut-brown skin that suggests a Zerrikanian in her family tree; pretty, too, under the too-thin frailty. Dragonfly’s always liked her girls dainty, small enough that she can pick them up in one hand - well, she could do that with almost anyone, what with Witcher strength and all, but still. She’ll take what she can get at brothels, as there aren’t _that_ many whores who’ll serve women, but she _likes_ them small and pretty and sweet.

Honestly, Livi’s about perfect, by Dragonfly’s lights anyhow.

Also deeply traumatized, scared half out of her mind, and so naive she doesn’t know that there _are_ women who prefer women, not to mention currently under Dragonfly’s protection, and therefore _quadruply_ off limits. Oh, and a _noble_. No sensible Witcher gets involved with nobles. (Wolf Witchers _definitely_ do not count as sensible.)

“Fuckin’ nobles,” Dragonfly sighs, and digs in her pack for her cloak, spreading it out over Livi carefully. “Give me the waterskins; I’ll go find a spring.”

“Thanks,” Gweld says, and tosses his at her; Ealdred hands her his. Dragonfly doesn’t _stomp_ off into the woods, because no Cat would be so stupid as to make noise like that, but she sort of wants to. She’s got no business even looking at the girl. They’ll get her to Kaer Morhen, and the Wolf will give her sanctuary, and she’ll end up as another of the cub’s ladies-in-waiting or something, and probably never even think about Dragonfly again. And Dragonfly will go down to Wolvenburg and see if any of the girls at Madame Flora’s fancy a tumble, and that’ll be an end to this...odd little interlude.

It doesn’t take her long to find a spring and fill their waterskins and the bucket for the mule, even with a brief detour into a blackberry patch, but by the time she gets back, Kolgrim has returned with what looks like half a warren’s worth of rabbits, and she joins in the work of skinning and gutting them without hesitation. Gweld is actually a decent cook, even over a campfire, and carries spices in his pack; in very little time, the smell of roasting rabbit rises into the evening air. Dragonfly puts her little heap of blackberries down on a convenient stone a little ways away from the fire, leans back on her hands, and basks in the pleasant warmth of the ground beneath her, the gentle breeze, the quiet chirping of birds settling back into their nests for the night. Ealdred unpacks his whetstone and begins tending his swords, singing one of the bard’s slower ballads under his breath; Kolgrim snorts and settles into meditation, deep even breathing a quiet counterpoint to the scrape of the whetstone along the blade.

Dragonfly doesn’t meditate, but she lets herself enjoy the peace of the moment, and tries not to notice that the sound she’s paying the _most_ attention to is the human-quick heartbeat of the girl sleeping beneath a tree behind her.

Eventually, of course, every peaceful moment comes to an end, but since the end to this one is Gweld saying, “Supper’s ready,” Dragonfly figures she can forgive the interruption. She rises while Gweld takes the rabbits off the fire, and crouches down to shake Livi’s shoulder gently.

“Supper,” she says, when the girl stirs and blinks blearily up at her. “You need to eat.”

“...Yes, Dragonfly,” Livi says, and sits up. “Oh! I don’t ache!”

“Merigold makes damn good potions,” Dragonfly says, and picks her up, moving her over to the fire in a few easy steps. Gweld hands the girl a skewer of rabbit meat, and Livi thanks him prettily and begins to nibble at it. Dragonfly takes her own skewer and takes a much less dainty bite. It’s good, as Gweld’s cooking always is, and the blackberries are a pleasant end to the meal, even if Dragonfly does have to growl Kolgrim away from eating _all_ of them before Livi can finish her rabbit.

Livi accepts the handful of blackberries Dragonfly has saved for her with a tiny, sweet smile and a murmur of gratitude, and Dragonfly mentally kicks herself. She’s got no business going out of her way to please the girl - what does it matter to her if Livi is smiling? If she looks pleased? _Why_ does it matter?

Fuck it all anyhow.

“May I ask a question, gracious Witchers?” Livi says shyly.

“You can _ask_ anything you like,” Kolgrim says, and grins, sharp and a little mean. “If you want to know if Vipers have two pricks, though, I’m not gonna answer.”

Livi goes three shades too pale, and the bitter scent of fear is suddenly strong. Dragonfly glares at Kolgrim. “How’s about you shut your mouth before I see if you sound better without a _tongue_ , asshole?” she snaps.

“Shit,” Kolgrim says, looking rather abashed. “Sorry, girl. Didn’t mean to _scare_ you.”

“It’s - it’s fine,” Livi says, voice rather thin, but the fear-smell is dying down, thank fuck. “I am sure you meant no harm.”

“All Vipers are asses,” Gweld says, giving Livi a very charming smile. “Best to ignore him, really. What was your question?”

“Ah,” Livi says, “how - how far is it, to Kaer Morhen?”

“With a mule?” Gweld says. “Ah - another ten, twelve days? Maybe more, if we happen across a contract, but once we’re in Kaedwen there probably won’t be much in the way of hunting. Got to get across the Kestrels, and the Trail always takes a couple days.”

Livi winces, just a little, but all she says is, “Thank you.”

Kolgrim frowns at her. “What the fuck were you going to do if you hadn’t run across us?”

Livi swallows. “Keep walking,” she says. “And perhaps hope to find one of the Warlord’s deputies, if I reached New Ghelibol.”

“You’d have died on the road,” Kolgrim snorts. Livi winces, but doesn’t disagree.

“Twelve days to the hot springs,” Ealdred says, a little dreamily. “And my lady Yennefer.”

“Still pining at her?” Dragonfly asks.

“I am not _pining_ ,” Ealdred says, giving her a dignified frown. “I am _courting_ her. Slowly.”

“Glacially,” Kolgrim says, smirking.

“With all the respect due her position and her honor,” Ealdred retorts.

Dragonfly rolls her eyes and tunes out the familiar argument. She thinks Ealdred’s quite mad for setting his cap for a _sorceress_ , but Griffins are all ridiculous anyhow; it’s his business if he wants to risk getting himself turned into a slug or something similar. She scoops Livi up and brings her out into the woods a ways so she can relieve herself in private, then retrieves her and puts her down on the softest grassy patch she can find, tucks her cloak back over the girl, and settles down to meditate beside her.

“Thank you, Dragonfly,” Livi whispers, and curls a little closer, until the back of one hand just barely brushes the side of Dragonfly’s leg. She’s asleep two breaths later.

Dragonfly stares down at her for a few minutes. There’s an emotion she can’t quite name welling up beneath her ribs, brought to life by the girl’s unthinking, unhesitating _trust_.

She shakes her head and shoves the emotion aside, forcing herself into meditation with an effort. The girl’s a _noble_. No sensible Witcher ever lets a noble into their heart.

*

Oliwia’s feet feel a _lot_ better when she wakes - not entirely healed yet, but far less painful than she expected them to be. She’s also not nearly as _sore_ as she expected to be, after an entire day of riding astride. Whoever this Merigold is, the salves and potions she makes are _very_ potent. Oliwia will have to thank her when she reaches Kaer Morhen.

Dragonfly stirs as soon as Oliwia sits up. Two of the other Witchers are still asleep; the redhead, Gweld, is stoking the fire back up, humming cheerfully under his breath.

“Alright there?” Dragonfly asks, and Oliwia nods.

“Quite well, thank you.” Far better than she expected to be, in fact.

“Right, then,” Dragonfly says, and scoops her up. Oliwia doesn’t squeak; she’s started getting used to just being picked up and carried about, and as long as it’s Dragonfly she doesn’t mind. And none of the other Witchers have even _tried_ to touch her, which is very reassuring. Even Kolgrim is just - just an ass, Oliwia thinks, and not actually -

Well.

She doesn’t want to think about that. If she thinks about that, she’ll panic, and if she panics, she’s not sure she _will_ be able to stop. It helps - it helps that none of the Witchers look anything like old Lord Velen, and honestly it even helps that they’re all so recognizably _Witchers_. That two-sworded silhouette can’t be mistaken for anything else, even in near-darkness, so their looming presence doesn’t _quite_ remind her of the men in Drakonburg, the ones she only narrowly escaped from - the ones who convinced her that scrounging for food in scrap heaps and along hedgerows was _far_ better than risking even venturing close to an inn.

She’s still not entirely used to just relieving herself outdoors, but thankfully Dragonfly takes care to find her particularly private patches of forest, so it’s as bearable as it can be. Breakfast is leftover rabbit and more blackberries, sweet and tart on her tongue, and Oliwia doesn’t think she’s imagining the fact that Dragonfly makes sure she gets what’s probably _more_ than her fair share of the treat.

The mule makes a soft noise when Oliwia is lifted onto its back, but doesn’t object, and Oliwia settles herself as comfortably as possible and nods to Dragonfly. “I’m ready.”

“Onward,” Dragonfly says, and sets off at the same ground-eating trot she used yesterday, the one which Witchers can evidently keep up for entire days at a time, if yesterday is any prediction. They don’t seem to notice the heat, either, despite all of them being clad in thick leather armor. Oliwia sort of wishes she had a hat, and also that the mule’s gait didn’t jar her sore muscles so badly.

It’s still far, far better than her journey _to_ the Wolf’s lands was. Oliwia would cheerfully ride this mule for a _year_ before repeating a single day of the last nightmarish month: hiding in hedgerows, walking until her feet bled and then walking some more, eating whatever she could scrounge out of refuse heaps or earn by scrubbing pots until her soft hands blistered, spending every waking moment in raw terror that either her father’s men would find her or one of the many, many hungry-looking strangers would manage to corner her, and sleeping in fitful, nightmare-ridden snatches that never seemed to make her less weary. The contrast with the last two days - plenty of food, salve for her aches, and two full nights of sleep under Dragonfly’s watchful protection - is very stark.

They travel until nearly noon again, and then another small village comes into sight, and Kolgrim says, “Hah, we can stop for some decent ale.”

As soon as they reach the little tavern, though, a short man with an alderman’s chain about his neck comes hurrying out, starting to talk even before he clears the doorway. “Witchers! Oh, we have been hoping for a patrol - just last week the trouble started -”

“What sort of trouble?” Gweld asks, stepping forward and giving the man an engaging smile.

“It’s the forest up north a ways - we usually gather fallen branches and snare rabbits, as the Wolf allows - last week Kacper the Elder didn’t come back, and then two days later _Piotr_ didn’t come back, and I ordered that no one should venture into the woods alone, and just yesterday we expected Tomasz and Patryk back but they haven’t arrived -”

“Ah, shit,” Gweld says. “Right. We’ll deal with it.” He turns and gestures, and the other three Witchers gather in close. Oliwia can just barely hear their murmuring, since the mule’s reins are still in Dragonfly’s hand.

“Right, I’d _prefer_ we all go hunting together,” Gweld says, “but Dragonfly, are you alright to leave our little Livi with the alderman?”

“I don’t like it,” Dragonfly says. Oliwia doesn’t like it _either_. She _desperately_ does not want to be separated from Dragonfly’s protection. But she’d hardly be safe in a forest full of monsters, not when her feet are still so battered that she isn’t entirely sure she could _run_ … “But an extra Witcher might make a difference.” Dragonfly stalks over to the alderman, Oliwia and the mule perforce following behind. “This girl is under my protection,” she snarls. The alderman’s eyes go big, and he shakes a little as he nods. “She will remain here. If a single hair on her head is harmed when I return, I will know, and I will be _angry_.”

“Yes, Witcher,” the alderman quavers. “I will watch over her as I would my own daughter.”

“See that you do,” Dragonfly says, and turns to Oliwia. “I’ll get you settled and we’ll head out,” she says, much more gently. “You’ll be alright?”

“I will be fine,” Oliwia assures her, trying hard to believe it. “Be safe, and - and good luck on your hunt.”

Dragonfly grins, sharp and fierce. “Oh, don’t you worry about _me_ ,” she says. “I’ll bring you back a trophy, if you like.”

“That’s...not necessary,” Oliwia says. She’s never really liked hunting trophies - the poor dead animals always look so _sad_. Though maybe it would be different if it was a _monster_. “Just come back safe, and swiftly.”

“That I’ll do,” Dragonfly promises. “Here now, alderman, which house is yours?”

Oliwia ends up settled on a small bench out behind the alderman’s house, watching the alderman’s cheerful wife weed her kitchen garden. Dragonfly touches her shoulder gently, a silent farewell, and then is gone, all four Witchers trotting north towards the forest together.

“Well now!” says the alderman’s wife, beaming at Oliwia. “And how did you come to be traveling with Witchers, lass? You look half-starved - ah, I’ll get you a plate of my good cheese and Pola’s best bread and some pickles, that’ll perk you right up - ach, look at your poor feet, I’ve some good soft slippers that my daughter Klara gave me, much too small for me they are - darling girl, my Klara, so absent-minded, I swear she’d forget her own hair if it weren’t attached, so she would, but she’s got a good heart, always has, why I mind me back when she was only a lass no taller than you are, she rescued a whole litter of kittens and wouldn’t hear of even one being drowned, oh no, she’d raise them all herself if she must -” She babbles on cheerfully, leaving absolutely no space for Oliwia to answer, but she also _does_ bring out a plate of bread and cheese and pickles, and a mug of weak ale, and a pair of very soft slippers that fit over Oliwia’s bandaged feet, and a rather battered hat for which Oliwia is _painfully_ grateful, so Oliwia eats and makes soft attentive noises and tries very hard not to worry about Dragonfly and Gweld and Ealdred and Kolgrim, off in a forest full of unknown monsters. It isn’t easy.

The day wears on, and Oliwia, who is not accustomed to having nothing to do, manages to get a few words in edgewise and ends up with a small heap of torn clothing to mend, which is a pleasantly simple task; she could do mending in her _sleep_. She finishes all of it by the time the townsfolk begin to come home from the fields, calling greetings to each other as they pass in the street.

She manages to hobble - slowly and _very_ painfully - into the alderman’s house for supper, and then out back again, to sit in the pleasant summer evening and wait. She has no idea how long a hunt might _take_ ; the Witchers didn’t even know how many monsters there might _be_ , after all, and presumably there’s a lot of forest to search. She might be here overnight. She might be here for _days_.

What if the monsters are _too_ deadly?

What if the Witchers don’t come back?

What if _Dragonfly_ doesn’t come back? Gods, Oliwia doesn’t even want to contemplate that - doesn’t want to think of what it might be like to have to travel onward without Dragonfly’s gruffly protective hovering, her silent kindnesses. She’ll _do_ it, if she must - she has to get to Kaer Morhen, _has_ to make it to the Wolf’s protection - but oh, she doesn’t want to.

The hours drag on. Soon, she’ll have to hobble back in and hope the alderman’s wife will be willing to make her a pallet in front of the fire, or even - maybe - allow her to use the daughter’s old bed, if it’s still available. She’ll have to figure out how to tend her own feet, too, with the salve that Dragonfly left for her. How to sleep without Dragonfly’s protective presence right beside her.

And then, just as it’s genuinely starting to get _dark_ and Oliwia knows she has to give up her silent vigil, there’s a commotion out in the street, several people yelling in shock and startled fright. She hears the house’s door bang as the alderman goes hurrying out to see what the matter is, and then, to Oliwia’s deep astonishment, someone _vaults_ the kitchen garden’s high gate, landing in a crouch on the path and turning to fix Oliwia with an inhuman gaze.

Dragonfly looks - looks _feral_. Her eyes are _completely_ black, whites and iris both, instead of the honey-gold shade Oliwia has almost grown accustomed to. Her skin is deathly pale, whiter than bleached linen, and there are strange dark lines radiating out from her eyes, like her very _blood_ has turned black. Even her _teeth_ look somehow sharper. There’s a spray of blood across one cheek - not hers, Oliwia thinks, but that of whatever monster she has slain.

“Livi,” she rasps, and Oliwia forgets to be afraid, stretches out her hands, and says, “Dragonfly, are you alright?”

Dragonfly rises to her feet and crosses the space between them, inhumanly fast, to sink down again kneeling in front of Oliwia, and takes Oliwia’s hands in hers, fingers far colder than they should be and spattered with dried blood, but painstakingly gentle, white as bone against Oliwia’s darker skin. She takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and then her shoulders sag a little and she seems to relax. “You’re not hurt.”

“No, I’m not,” Oliwia says. “The alderman and his wife have been very kind to me; see, they’ve even given me a hat!”

Dragonfly smiles, sharp-toothed and somehow sweet. “‘S a good hat.”

The gate opens, and Gweld comes in, panting a little. “Oh, thank _fuck_ ,” he says when he sees them. “Dragonfly, you beef-witted bobolyne, you can’t go running off like that; you’ve scared half the town shitless. Livi, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Oliwia assures him hastily. “Is _Dragonfly_ alright?”

“She’s fine, she’s just still hopped up on Swallow and Tawny Owl, and didn’t have the good sense to drink a damned Honey before she came running back,” Gweld says, and pulls a little vial out of a belt pouch. “Fuck’s sake, Dragonfly. Here, drink.”

Dragonfly makes a low irritated sound, much like a cat who doesn’t want to be petted, but she frees one hand from holding Oliwia’s, takes the vial, and knocks back the pale gold liquid within in a single gulp. Slowly, the blackness fades from her eyes, the color comes back to her cheeks, and her fingers warm under Oliwia’s. She blinks a few times and shakes herself a bit.

“Huh,” she says at last, tossing the empty vial back to Gweld. “Thanks, Wolf.”

“Fucking Cats,” Gweld grumbles, and goes stomping back out of the garden, closing the gate gently behind him.

Dragonfly rises, though she doesn’t let go of Oliwia’s hand. “They looked after you properly, then.”

“They were the very souls of hospitality,” Oliwia says. “But - I am glad to see you back safely.”

Dragonfly grins and only then seems to notice the blood staining her face and hands and armor. “Ah, shit, I need a damned _bath_. Shouldn’t carry you like this.”

“It’s fine,” Oliwia says. “Truly. I should rather be with you than wait here until you have bathed.”

“Well, alright then,” Dragonfly says, and scoops her up.

The door opens, and the alderman’s wife looks out and squeaks a bit. “Oh dear, lass, what’s toward?”

“Thank you for all your courtesy!” Oliwia says hastily. “I could not have had kinder hosts. May all the gods bless you!” she adds, calling it over Dragonfly’s shoulder as the Witcher carries her away.

“And you, lass!” the alderman’s wife replies, sounding deeply confused but much less worried. Oliwia settles a little more comfortably into Dragonfly’s arms and sighs in contentment. Thank every god, she is back under her Witcher’s protection.


	3. Chapter 3

Dragonfly is genuinely rather taken aback to discover that her potions-enhanced instincts have brought her back to Livi. She hasn’t sought someone out while high on potions since -

Well, since that one hunt when Vesper got both her legs broken, and Dragonfly came back to herself to discover she was crouched over her sister, having killed an entire endrega nest all by herself, and also apparently snarled a bear away without ever thinking to draw her swords. She expects that sort of feral protectiveness for her _sisters_ , even for her brothers if it comes to it, but to find herself looking for _Livi_ -

Shit, has she gone and let herself start to _care_ about the girl? Oh, that’s bad. That’s very bad. She’s no fool of a Wolf, to go flinging her heart at a noble and thinking it won’t get trampled - Cats are smarter than _that_.

It’s slightly less bad than it could be, though, because far from recoiling in fear, screaming, or fainting at the sight of a Witcher in full inhuman truth, Livi is apparently only concerned about whether _Dragonfly_ is alright. That’s honestly _astonishing_. Witchers don’t get many _good_ surprises.

Livi is also completely unharmed, and has been given soft slippers and a ridiculous floppy hat and at least one decent meal, so Dragonfly doesn’t even have to feel too guilty about leaving her behind in a strange town.

And she’s _distressingly_ pleasant to cradle in Dragonfly’s arms, a warm slight weight; she even cuddles closer, resting her head on Dragonfly’s shoulder with a little sigh of what sure as hell smells like _happiness_. Dragonfly has never encountered a human quite so eagerly willing to be _held_ \- not held by a _Witcher_ , at least. Sometimes whores are amenable to a bit of cuddling after the bedsport, if Dragonfly pays extra, but they certainly don’t lean into it so happily.

She also doesn’t object when Dragonfly carries her out of town to the Witchers’ campsite. _Livi_ may not have minded seeing Dragonfly hopped up on potions, but the rest of the townsfolk are _distinctly_ uncomfortable with the glimpses they caught, and also rather twitchy after the boys dragged the carcasses of three big kikimoras in and dumped them in front of the tavern. There were several more than that, but they burned the extras; no point leaving them to rot, after all, and nothing eats kikimoras.

Gweld has collected the mule, and Ealdred has gotten them a big jug of ale and a platter of food from the inn, so they make a fairly decent night of it, and Livi falls asleep with her head on Dragonfly’s leg. Kolgrim waits until the girl’s breathing has evened out into the deep rhythm of true sleep before he says, “So, kitty, what the fuck was _that_?”

Ordinarily Dragonfly would punch him for calling her ‘kitty,’ but she’s a little stuck at the moment, unless she wants to wake Livi up, so she just makes a mental note to break Kolgrim’s nose for him one of these days and lets the nickname slide. “What the fuck was _what_?”

“You runnin’ off like that. You’ve got better control, usually.”

Dragonfly can’t actually argue with that. She looks down at the girl sleeping in her lap, and realizes that she’s actually started petting Livi’s hair without quite realizing it. It’s smooth and soft beneath her fingers, catching slightly on the calluses. _Fuck_. “I was worried,” she mutters. “Girl’s had it hard, this last little while.”

“Huh,” Kolgrim grunts, and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ miracle you didn’t scare her senseless.”

Dragonfly glares at him. “I _know_ ,” she snarls. She does. She knows _exactly_ how badly that scene could have gone - how much damage she could have done to the reputation of every Witcher in the Warlord’s lands, if Livi had taken the sight of her, black-eyed and feral, as badly as she probably _should_ have.

Kolgrim raises his hands in a placating sort of gesture. “Alright, then, I’ll say no more. Just - mind yourself, Cat. Nobles are always trouble.”

“I know,” Dragonfly says again. “Fuck off, I’m not a stupid _Wolf_ , I’m not gonna fall in love or something idiotic like that.”

“Hey,” Gweld says mildly.

“Lambert, Eskel, and the Wolf,” Dragonfly says. “And you can’t tell me they aren’t all _idiots_.”

“Extremely smart men, but yes, idiots,” Gweld allows. “Still, I think Ealdred and I will both have to defend the idea of falling in love.”

Ealdred sighs something that sounds suspiciously like, “ _Yennefer_.”

Dragonfly rolls her eyes. “Fuck off,” she mutters. “Probably Merigold messed with the potion recipe again or something.”

She and the boys all know that’s not what happened, but thank fuck, none of them calls her on it. Dragonfly grimaces down at the girl sleeping so contentedly in her lap. What right does she have to be so _sweet_? And so - so _trusting_?

She strokes her hand over Livi’s soft hair one more time and lies down, curling around the girl, and lets herself sleep.

In the morning, Livi seems completely unphased by having been cuddled by a Witcher all night; she wakes with a soft formless sound and smiles up at Dragonfly sweetly. Her feet are nearly healed - Merigold makes _damn_ good salves - but are still battered enough that Dragonfly feels perfectly justified in picking Livi up and carrying her anywhere she needs to go. Livi doesn’t object, just nestles closer and smells _happy_ , which continues to be startling and astonishingly pleasant.

And then off they go again, trotting north and east towards Kaer Morhen.

Traveling like this, making their way directly towards a goal without meandering about looking for hunts, gives Dragonfly a lot of time to think, which is either a blessing or a curse. She _doesn’t_ want to think about what Kolgrim was implying - about her getting _attached_ to Livi so fucking _obviously_ \- so she focuses her mind on yesterday’s hunt instead, going over it mentally to review her own errors and how best to keep from making them again, as any sensible Witcher does.

Dragonfly has to admit she was dubious as _hell_ when the Wolf decreed that patrols should be made up of multiple Witchers. Witchers hunt _alone_ , everyone knew that. But she also has to admit, if only to herself, that hunting with backup is a lot more effective, and a lot less _fatal_. A nest of kikimoras as large as yesterday’s would have given her some genuine trouble if it had been just her - might have even managed to kill her. She _certainly_ wouldn’t have come out of it with barely a scratch, much less able to travel again the next day. So maybe these multi-Witcher patrols aren’t utterly bullshit after all. And yeah, alright, maybe learning to fight and hunt alongside Witchers of other Schools isn’t a terrible idea either. Certainly it’s nice to have a Wolf’s strength, or a Griffin’s overpowered Signs, in a lot of different fights. And having all of them learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses _now_ , instead of in actual _battles_ , is also a sensible thing for the Wolf to do.

Dragonfly thought this whole Warlord thing was absolute madness, back when the White Wolf asked the other Schools to join him in his attempt to rid the world of monstrous men. She voted in favor, of course - madness has never been a disqualifying factor for Cats - but she was pretty sure it would turn out to be a spectacular clusterfuck within months. A couple of years at most. Now here they are, just short of twenty years into the White Wolf’s rise, and somehow it _isn’t_ collapsing into chaos. Is, in fact, becoming steadily stronger and sturdier.

The White Wolf’s lands are becoming the sort of place a young woman can see a Witcher and run _towards_ her, in utter trust that the Witcher will protect her, instead of fleeing in abject fear.

Which brings her right back to Livi, dammit.

What the hell is it about the girl that has Dragonfly’s instincts so...out of whack? Sure, she’s pretty, but there are a lot of pretty girls in the world. Dragonfly’s even gotten to swive a fair number of them. And there are a lot of _brave_ girls in the world, too, though few of them are brave or desperate enough to throw themselves upon the Wolf’s mercy. But...well, there aren’t that many girls, even brave and desperate girls, who will trust themselves to a Witcher so...wholeheartedly.

That’s the root of it, right there. Like every Witcher, Dragonfly is used to the constant scent of fear whenever she’s around humans - these days it’s far less prominent than it used to be, and within Kaer Morhen it’s virtually nonexistent, but Livi has never once smelled scared of _her_. Of Ealdred, of Kolgrim, of being left alone in an unfamiliar town - all of those have scared her. But never Dragonfly.

No wonder the Wolf and Eskel are so delighted by their songbird; no wonder that asshole Lambert so dotes on his Milena. Having a human look at you and _trust_ you - lean into your touch, desire your company - it’s fucking _addictive_ , is what it is.

But getting attached to a noble is a terrible idea. Maybe the Wolves can get away with it - honorable bastards are the closest thing the Warlord’s army _has_ to nobles of its own, after all - but Dragonfly’s no Wolf, not even a too-fucking-chivalrous Griffin. She’s a _Cat_. Cats are stab-happy fierce fuckers, but they’re nowhere near noble. Dragonfly should be staying as far from Livi as she possibly _can_ , because this can’t go anywhere.

But if Dragonfly’s strongest instinct while high on potions was to find Livi and make sure she was safe, then that horse is not just out of the barn, it’s ten miles down the road and eating someone else’s garden bare. So given that she’s already in far, far too deep…

May as well enjoy Livi’s company while she has it, then. Not like Livi’s going to want to spend any time around her once they get to Kaer Morhen, after all.

*

Oliwia sighs in relief as Dragonfly lifts her off the mule, and settles herself cross-legged on the grass when Dragonfly puts her down in the shade of a tree. Gweld tends the mule; Ealdred rummages about in the packs and brings Oliwia hard bread and dried meat and a waterskin. Kolgrim vanishes into the trees for a few minutes. When he emerges, they all draw swords and go for each other again, and this time Oliwia doesn’t have to worry that they’re trying to kill each other, and can just enjoy watching four of the finest fighters in the world at their trade.

She doesn’t know _much_ about fighting, but she thinks maybe the four of them have slightly different styles, and for lack of anything better to do, spends the luncheon hour attempting to analyze the differences. Dragonfly is by far the most agile, dodging out of the way of her fellows’ blows with swift, almost impossible-seeming twists of her body. Ealdred fights a lot like the knights she’s seen in Tretogor, straightforward and almost choreographed, and his magic seems stronger than anyone else’s. It’s effective, unless one of the others uses what Oliwia guesses from Ealdred’s objections are extremely dirty tricks. Gweld is quicker than Ealdred, stronger than Dragonfly; Kolgrim is prone to nasty feints and sneaky attacks that would be considered very dishonorable in formal combat, judging from Ealdred’s grumbles.

There doesn’t seem to be a set pattern to their fighting; sometimes Dragonfly and Gweld team up against Ealdred and Kolgrim, and then moments later they shift and it’s Dragonfly and Kolgrim and Ealdred against Gweld, and then another shift and Kolgrim is the target - Oliwia gets a little dizzy trying to follow the constant swirling, and focuses instead just on Dragonfly. The female Witcher is almost a blur of speed, whirling and ducking through her opponents’ blows, her sword flickering out like a tongue of flame in the noonday sun. She’s grinning, barking brief laughter whenever she manages to land a hit, honey-gold eyes gleaming, wisps of her tawny hair escaping from her braid and catching the sunlight in a gleaming halo. There’s nothing ladylike about her, nothing delicate or dainty or elegant, but there’s a sleek ferocity, a graceful deadliness, that’s like nothing Oliwia’s ever really seen before. She thinks she could watch Dragonfly fight for _hours_. It’s lovelier than any court dance could ever hope to be.

The training fight is winding down when Dragonfly ducks out of the way of one of Kolgrim’s blows just a hair too slowly, and his sword catches her tunic’s short sleeve, and the arm under it, not full-strength but easily hard enough to slice through the fabric and leave a bloody gash in the flesh. Dragonfly swears, and retaliates with a swirling attack that actually knocks the sword from Kolgrim’s hands and sends it flying to embed itself in a nearby tree, then looks down at her arm and grimaces.

“Dammit, Kolgrim, now I’m going to have to sew that up,” she gripes. “I _hate_ sewing.”

She means the _tunic_ , Oliwia realizes with a start of surprise. Not her arm - indeed, the blood has already stopped flowing as the gash begins to heal - but the _cloth_.

“I -” she says, and all four Witchers turn to look at her in obvious surprise. “I could mend that for you. I’m quite good with a needle.”

“Would you?” Dragonfly says, looking hopeful. “That’d be marvelous.”

“I’d be happy to,” Oliwia says. “Any mending you need done - any of you. It’s the least I can do, really.”

“Lovely,” Kolgrim says, grinning. “Anything that makes the kitty complain a little less is a good thing in _my_ book.”

Dragonfly whirls and punches him quite hard in the face. Oliwia can _hear_ the crack of breaking bone. Kolgrim reels back and sits down, hard, and reaches up to touch his newly-broken nose. “ _Touchy_ kitty,” he says, grinning with bloodstained teeth.

“Fucking _Vipers_ ,” Dragonfly grumbles. “Don’t call me _kitty_ , damn you. You know I hate it.”

“Well, yes,” Kolgrim says. Ealdred sighs and rolls his eyes and kneels down next to the Viper.

“Here, let me get that nose straightened out before it heals wrong,” he says. “When are you going to learn not to piss off Cat Witchers? _How_ many times have you gotten your nose broken for doing that?”

“Oh, half a dozen,” Kolgrim says cheerfully. Gweld shakes his head and collects everyone’s waterskins before fading back into the woods, silent as a shadow.

Dragonfly comes over and flops down on her back next to Oliwia, making disgruntled noises under her breath. Oliwia wishes she dared reach out and brush a wisp of hair out of Dragonfly’s eyes, but she keeps her hands folded in her lap instead.. “You’re quite magnificent to watch,” she says quietly.

“Heh,” Dragonfly says, grinning up at her and blowing at the wisp of hair until it flips out of her face again. “Should see me with daggers.”

Oliwia tries to imagine how much more swiftly and agilely the Cat Witcher might move with _daggers_ instead of a long sword in hand, and can feel her own eyes going wide. “That must be _marvelous_.”

Dragonfly grins wider, and stretches out, closing her eyes and looking for all the world like a very contented cat basking in a sunbeam. She doesn’t seem bothered at _all_ by the swiftly-healing gash on her arm.

Oliwia has to restrain the sudden and _deeply_ inappropriate urge to trail her fingers over Dragonfly’s stomach, where her armor and tunic have ridden up a little to expose a single strip of pale skin. Instead, she touches the sleeve of the tunic, examining the cut, ignoring the faint stickiness of drying blood. “This will be fairly simple to mend,” she says. “I can fix it tonight, if you like.”

“I’d be grateful,” Dragonfly says, without opening her eyes. “I always stick my fingers when I try to sew - it’s damned annoying. Sewed myself _to_ a pair of breeches once. Still not sure how.”

Oliwia giggles. Dragonfly grins wider.

Gweld re-emerges from the woods, tossing waterskins to the other Witchers and coming over to hand Oliwia hers politely, for which Oliwia is duly grateful. Ealdred finishes tending Kolgrim’s nose and gets up, wiping his hands on his breeches. Dragonfly sits up and drains half her waterskin in a few long gulps, then rolls to her feet and goes to fish more bread and dried meat from their packs, tossing the meal to each of her fellows in turn.

They set out again once everyone has eaten, and Oliwia actually manages to walk to the mule, her feet aching but not screaming in agony. She has to admit, though, if only to herself, that she’s really quite pleased when Dragonfly picks her up to put her on the mule’s back. There’s something very reassuring about being held in the Witcher’s arms.

She’s starting to get used to riding astride, though it’s still deeply uncomfortable. With her feet almost healed, she can slip them into the stirrups, which in turn lets her loosen her deathgrip on the pommel, so the afternoon’s travel is altogether less unpleasant than it could be.

In the evening, settled on a mossy patch of ground beneath a particularly broad-branched tree, she bends over Dragonfly’s torn tunic, concentrating on making her stitches tiny and even. Above her, lounging on a tree branch, Dragonfly has not bothered to dig out another tunic, but is wearing only a breastband, and Oliwia is very carefully _not_ looking up at the pale, scarred skin of her Witcher.

No, not _hers_. She has no claim on Dragonfly. The older woman is simply - simply kind, and protective, and gruffly sweet, as she would doubtless be to _any_ distraught young woman who begged her aid.

“Shit, I can barely see those stitches,” Dragonfly says, in tones of mild awe. “How the fuck d’you get them so small?”

“Years of practice,” Oliwia says, smiling down at her work. “If they’ve nothing else to do, peasant girls spend their time spinning; noble girls spend their time sewing.”

“Huh,” Dragonfly says. “That makes sense. Do anything for a couple hours every day, you’ll get pretty good at it.” She falls silent until Oliwia finishes mending the tunic sleeve, but Oliwia can still feel her gaze, like summer sunlight, warm on the back of her neck.

“Done,” Oliwia says at last, and Dragonfly swings down out of the tree to take her tunic back. Oliwia’s eyes catch on a scar that crosses Dragonfly’s stomach, a raised white line that must be the remnant of a blow that would have killed any mortal woman. She doesn’t quite realize she’s reaching out until her fingers brush against the mark. Dragonfly’s skin is warm and surprisingly soft over rock-hard muscle.

“Wyvern,” Dragonfly says quietly. “They’ve got nasty claws.” She smiles, a little wryly Oliwia thinks, as Oliwia yanks her hand away in shock at her own boldness, blushing hotly. “That was _before_ Ard Carraigh. Haven’t gotten close enough to one to get hit since then.”

“Do you not fight them anymore?” Oliwia asks.

“Nah, we fight ‘em, just not from quite so close.” Dragonfly’s grin gets wider. “Say what you like about the Cranes, their explosive crossbow bolts are _damn_ useful.”

“Oh,” Oliwia says. Dragonfly snorts softly and pulls her tunic back on, tugging at the mended sleeve with a crooked smile.

“Good as new,” she says. “Thanks. Now then, let me have a look at your feet before it gets properly dark.” She crouches down, and Oliwia offers her feet obediently. Dragonfly’s hands are gentle as she unwinds the bandages, honey-gold eyes narrowed in thought as she examines the healing blisters.

“Not bad,” she says at last. “Buy you a pair of decent boots in the next town we pass. Should be walking just fine in a day or two, I’d say.” She smears on another layer of salve with careful fingers.

“Thank you,” Oliwia says softly. “For everything.”

“Don’t need thanks,” Dragonfly says gruffly, winding the last bandage around Oliwia’s left foot and tying it off with the ease of long practice.

“You have them nonetheless,” Oliwia says. She doesn’t think she can really articulate _how_ grateful she is - not just that Dragonfly has been so good to her, but that Dragonfly _exists_. That there _was_ a female Witcher in that sleepy border town, scarred and inelegant and magnificent, for Oliwia to beg sanctuary from.


	4. Chapter 4

Dragonfly refuses to feel guilty about waking up curled around Livi for the second morning in a row. The girl sleeps better if she’s touching Dragonfly, and her human-quick heart is oddly soothing to listen to. And she’s under Dragonfly’s protection, which means it’s best if she’s as close as possible, in case of some unexpected disaster. And Dragonfly isn’t a self-sacrificing Wolf or a too-chivalrous Griffin; she’s not going to keep denying herself something she wants when it’s so clearly not working. So she’ll sleep next to the girl until they get to Kaer Morhen, and let herself take pleasure in the way Livi nestles trustingly against her, utterly unafraid.

Gweld gives Dragonfly a wry look as she rolls to her feet, which Dragonfly ignores magnificently. Kolgrim and Ealdred are still asleep, though not, she knows, for long. Livi curls up a little tighter under Dragonfly’s cloak, one hand reaching out as though to see where her warm pillow has gone. Dragonfly sighs and nudges one of her packs close enough for Livi to latch onto it; the girl tugs it closer, forehead still furrowed in dissatisfaction, but her breathing evens out again as she sinks back into a deeper sleep.

Dragonfly pads over to the fire, and the oat porridge Gweld is patiently stirring.

“So,” Gweld says, quietly enough that it won’t even wake the other two Witchers, “she seems to be recovering well.”

Dragonfly nods and takes a bowl of porridge. “Good salve,” she says.

Gweld chuckles. “Not what I meant. She’s coming out of her shell.”

“Mmph,” Dragonfly says. “Guess so.”

Gweld shakes his head, grinning. Livi uncurls with a little, smothered yawn, and Dragonfly turns and meets sleepy green eyes and Livi _smiles_. It’s brighter and more lovely than the rising sun.

Ah, shit.

Dragonfly smiles back.

Livi’s smile gets broader, and she sits up properly. Dragonfly steps over and offers her a hand up, meaning to pick her up as soon as any sign of pain crosses her face, but Livi sways on her feet for a moment and then makes a little happy squeaking noise. “Oh, my feet don’t hurt!”

Dragonfly tries valiantly to quash the deeply unworthy stab of disappointment that she won’t have an excuse to carry Livi around anymore. “Good,” she says, as sincerely as she can manage.

Livi looks down at her own feet for a moment and then frowns a little. “I...don’t know if these slippers are suited for walking about in a forest, though,” she says reluctantly. “I hate to impose any further on you, but would you be - would you be willing to -”

Dragonfly picks her up in one neat swoop, and Livi makes a little surprised noise and nestles closer. It’s _distressingly_ pleasant.

Thankfully, no one makes anything of the fact that Dragonfly _knows_ she smells altogether too smug about carrying Livi around, and breakfast is uneventful. They’re on the road before the sun is much above the horizon, heading north and east.

There’s another town a little ways along, one that Dragonfly and the boys did not go through on the way down through the Wolf’s Redania. They stop for dinner - the tavern is small and rather grimy, but the pigeon pie is fairly good - and then Dragonfly carries Livi across the street to a cobbler’s shop.

The cobbler looks up from her last and blanches, and there’s an instant wash of bitter fear-scent. Dragonfly keeps her face smooth with an effort. “My lord,” she stammers, “I mean - my lady - Witcher - how may I serve you?”

“Livi needs boots,” Dragonfly says, putting Livi down gently on a chair. “Quickly, if possible.”

“Ah - yes, of course, my lady Witcher,” the cobbler says, but she doesn’t move closer until Dragonfly backs up a step. Dragonfly sighs. She’d never do this if the cobbler was _male_ , but -

“Livi, d’you mind if I step outside?” she murmurs.

Livi smiles up at her. “Not at all.”

“Yell if you need me,” Dragonfly says, and slips out of the shop, leaning up against the wall well out of the cobbler’s line of sight.

She can still hear everything, of course.

“Ah, you’ve got very small feet,” the cobbler says, brisk and businesslike now that the terrifying Witcher has left. “I’ve got a pair that are nearly the right size, I can set you up without any trouble. Half an hour, perhaps.”

“That will be fine,” Livi replies.

There’s a brief silence, broken only by the noise of the cobbler bustling about, and then, very quietly, the cobbler says, “Lass, are you the Witcher’s captive? I can sneak you out the back - my daughter will hide you -”

“I thank you for your care,” Livi says, and there’s something in her tone that Dragonfly can’t quite parse. “But my companion is my protector, not my captor. She has been nothing but kind to me since I begged her aid.”

“She’s a _Witcher_ ,” the cobbler hisses incredulously. “They’re _animals_ , monsters as bad as the ones they fight! Have you never heard the tales of what they do with young girls like you?”

Dragonfly sighs. She’ll need to tell Eskel about this. He has maps and charts and endless notes about which villages and towns have not yet had changes of heart brought about by the bard’s songs, and if the cobbler of this town is so _vehemently_ terrified of Witchers, that’s not a great sign for the opinions of the rest of the town, either. Though the tavern-keeper served them without more than mild apprehension, so...maybe it isn’t the _whole_ town.

She’s gotten soft. Used to be, she was perfectly accustomed to people hissing at the sight of her, spitting on her shadow, muttering to each other about her inhumanity. Used to be, she _expected_ it.

It’s probably what Livi believes, too. Fuck, gods only know what they teach about Witchers in unconquered Redania, but it’s probably _worse_ than the bile the cobbler is spitting. It’s frankly a miracle that Livi doesn’t recoil from Dragonfly as from a poisonous snake - an utterly inexplicable miracle, at that. By rights, Livi _ought_ to smell of fear every moment she’s within sight of Dragonfly, much less in her _arms_.

“Well,” Livi says briskly, surprising Dragonfly and the cobbler both, “I suppose it’s just as well you won’t have to worry about taking a Witcher’s coin, then.” Dragonfly startles away from the wall as Livi comes mincing out of the cobbler’s shop, clearly trying to look haughty without betraying the fact that her feet are still sensitive, the cobbler following her and stammering apologies. “I had rather be carried all the way to Kaer Morhen than buy boots from one who would so insult you,” she continues, looking up at Dragonfly, and Dragonfly -

Well, what can she do but pick Livi up, cradling her close?

The cobbler gapes as Livi settles comfortably into Dragonfly’s embrace. Livi looks at her coldly. “Fare you _well_ , cobbler,” she says, voice as cool as a breeze out of the Blue Mountains. Dragonfly decides that’s the best cue she’s going to get, and turns away, heading for the tavern.

“You didn’t need to do that - you do need boots, we could’ve bought them,” she says awkwardly.

Livi smiles up at her and nestles closer. “Thank you,” she says, “but please, do not think you need to worry on my account. I meant what I said. No footwear in the world could be worth listening to someone accuse you of such _foulness_.”

“I’ve heard it before,” Dragonfly says, baffled at the heat in Livi’s tone. “I can ignore it, easy enough.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Livi says. “And I won’t stand for it - not if I can help it.”

Dragonfly blinks down at her, and Livi meets her eyes squarely, a fierce expression on her pretty face. It’s a bit like seeing a lion cub snarling: adorable and harmless.

But lion cubs grow up.

“...Thank you,” Dragonfly says at last. Livi’s fierce expression melts into a smile as sweet as honey, and she rests her head against Dragonfly’s shoulder with a little contented sigh.

Gweld gives Dragonfly a _look_ when she comes in with Livi in her arms and no boots in evidence. Dragonfly makes a face back that she hopes conveys confusion and annoyance in roughly equal measure.

“Did the cobbler not suit you, my lady?” Ealdred asks Livi.

“We had a regrettable difference of opinion,” Livi replies. “She thought she could insult Witchers in front of me.”

“Ah,” Ealdred says, and all three boys give Livi almost identical startled looks. “I suppose we shall have to find you another cobbler, then.”

“So long as we can find one who will not repeat _that_ woman’s folly,” Livi says.

Dragonfly maybe keeps carrying her for most of the afternoon. Livi seems very happy about it, and so does the mule, and the boys, thank fuck, are smart enough to keep their mouths shut - even Kolgrim, for a miracle.

*

Oliwia _does_ get a pair of boots, two towns and three days later, from a cobbler who is delighted to help her and makes no stupid comments about Dragonfly or Witchers in general. By that point, the soft slippers have gotten quite badly battered from walking about on the rocky ground, but Dragonfly is ever vigilant: if it looks like there might be _any_ risk to Oliwia’s feet, the Witcher is there, scooping her up and cradling her close. It’s surprisingly comforting, actually, knowing that even in this small thing, Dragonfly is there to protect her.

The other Witchers, Oliwia is sure, would defend her from monsters - or from monstrous men - but they do still scare her, just a little. Well, Kolgrim does, anyhow; his sense of humor is a little too vicious for Oliwia to really be comfortable with it. Gweld seems to be a very sweet man, and Ealdred is as chivalrous in attitude as the finest knights in a maiden’s book of tales, and all three of them, thank the gods, have continued to keep their distance from her, never approaching her from behind and rarely coming close at all.

It takes them fourteen days in all to reach the city at the foot of the Blue Mountains, what with having to stop for assorted errands and once to let the Witchers help find a small child who’d gotten lost in a forest, and another day to climb the Trail up to Kaer Morhen itself. Oliwia clings to the mule’s saddle just as desperately as she did on those first few days, the whole way up the Trail: it is steep and winding and narrow, and the drop-offs to either side are _terrifyingly_ sheer. Dragonfly walks beside the mule, letting Gweld lead the animal, keeping herself between Oliwia and the trail’s edge, and Oliwia thinks more than once that if it wasn’t an utterly selfish thing to want, she might have asked if _Dragonfly_ could carry her rather than the mule. She’d certainly feel safer in the Witcher’s arms.

Kaer Morhen, when they reach it, is a great looming edifice of a keep, stark and unfriendly, but Gweld whistles a little tune and the great gates creak open in welcome. Oliwia sits up a little straighter on the mule’s back and takes a deep breath. She’s been trying to ignore the fact that for all that Dragonfly granted her protection in the White Wolf’s name, the White Wolf himself may well refuse...and even if he doesn’t, he’s _terrifying_. She’s only ever seen him from a distance, that one earthshaking evening in Redania, but that was quite enough to convince her that he is far, far scarier than almost any other man in the world.

 _Almost_.

Because if Jaskier and Milena are to be believed, the White Wolf knows the meaning of mercy, and of honor, and the man Oliwia is fleeing does not.

Dragonfly lifts her off the mule, and a human man in straw-flecked livery comes trotting up to accept the animal’s reins, crooning a welcome to it. Well, the mule at least will be in good hands. Oliwia follows Dragonfly with increasing trepidation up the steps to the big double doors, the other three Witchers falling in behind them, and then down a broad corridor to an enormous hall filled with long tables. There’s an empty throne up near the head of the hall - a great dark stone thing with an inset silver wolf’s head medallion gleaming in the lantern light - but Dragonfly ignores it, leading the way to a sturdy wooden door half-hidden in the shadows at the back of the hall, with a bulky Witcher leaning on the wall beside it who nods an amiable greeting as they approach.

She raps on the door, and a low voice from within rumbles, “Enter.”

Oliwia takes a deep breath as Dragonfly swings the door open, and follows the Witcher in.

The room is surprisingly large - has to be, since it holds a huge table and still has enough room for a dozen people. There aren’t quite _that_ many there, as it happens, but there are a decent handful.

The first and most obvious is the White Wolf himself, seated at the head of the table. Thank the gods he _is_ sitting down; he’s less intimidating like that. Not _much_ less, but every little bit helps. At his right is another Witcher, just as brawny and broad-shouldered, with a terrible set of scars down his cheek; Oliwia recognizes Eskel Amber-Eyed from the treaty dinner in Tretogor. A third Witcher, this one grizzled with age, is leaning over the table, frowning down at the map spread over it, with a fourth Witcher, dark-haired and languid in manner, lounging on the table’s edge and pointing at something on the map. At the White Wolf’s left is a human man in crimson silks: Jaskier, the Warlord’s Consort. At _his_ left is a girl of thirteen or fourteen, ash-blonde and pretty, and on her other side, a stunningly beautiful violet-eyed woman, the sorceress Yennefer.

They all look up as Dragonfly leads her little party in, and Eskel Amber-Eyed rises to his feet. “Dragonfly,” he says, smiling a little. “Gweld, Ealdred, Kolgrim. Welcome home. You’ve brought a guest?”

Consort Jaskier takes a second look at her, and his eyes go very wide, and he says, “Ye gods! _Oliwia_?”

Oliwia steps forward, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking. “I am honored that you remember me, my lord Consort.”

Consort Jaskier pushes away from the table and rises, coming towards her with outstretched hands. “Remember you? Darling girl, Milena’s gotten half a dozen letters about you from your mutual friends; apparently you _vanished_ , and they’re all quite distraught! Whatever happened?”

Oliwia takes his hands, still trying to keep her own from shaking, and curtsies - as well as she can in trousers, anyhow. “It is a brief tale, I fear, my lord. I was to be married.” She takes a deep breath. “To Duke Velen.”

Consort Jaskier goes white. “ _Fuck_. That old bastard is still at it?”

The White Wolf rumbles, “Lark? Explain?”

Consort Jaskier turns to his lord, shaking his head in clear dismay. “Remember Milena mentioned having almost been married off to Vizimir’s uncle, who’d already killed three pretty young wives?”

The White Wolf nods. Eskel Amber-Eyed says, “And then when Lambert found out, we had to convince him not to go kill the entire Redanian royal family, yes, I remember that. Was that this Velen fellow, then?”

“Yes,” Oliwia says, and steps past Consort Jaskier, and sinks to her knees. Her heart is pounding so hard she’s sure other _humans_ can hear it, much less Witchers, and she thinks she may actually burst into tears if she stretches this out much longer. “White Wolf, Warlord of the North, I am Oliwia Bartol, sometime baroness of Denesle. I beg you, grant me sanctuary. I have little to offer save my fealty, but that is yours, if you will allow me to remain under your protection, for there is no other monarch in the North who could - or would - shield me from Duke Velen and my father.”

There’s a brief pause - so brief, in fact, that Oliwia doesn’t even have time to truly panic. The White Wolf says, quiet but firm, “Granted. You will be safe within my halls.”

Oliwia sags with relief. “Thank you, my liege,” she whispers. “Thank you.” She can feel herself tearing up, and sniffs hard, determined not to cry in front of - well, everyone.

“Hm,” says the White Wolf, and Consort Jaskier offers Oliwia a hand up. “Dragonfly. Gweld. Ealdred. Kolgrim. You did well to bring her here.”

“Very well,” Eskel Amber-Eyed agrees. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Oliwia.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Oliwia says, and Consort Jaskier chuckles.

“Let’s go and find Milena,” he says. “She’ll be very glad indeed to know you’re well.”

“And I shall be glad to reassure her,” Oliwia says, and turns to catch Dragonfly’s hands, pressing them in her own and looking up into honey-gold eyes. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “For - for everything.”

Dragonfly looks deeply uncomfortable, but she tugs one hand free and tucks a lock of Livi’s hair back behind her ear, fingers gentle as a breeze. “You’re welcome,” she says gruffly. “Go on now; we’ve reports to make, and you should reassure your friend.”

Oliwia nods, and squeezes Dragonfly’s hand one more time, and follows Consort Jaskier out of the room.

She’s rather proud of herself: she doesn’t burst into tears until they’ve found Milena, and she is safe in her friend’s warm embrace.

And she definitely doesn’t think about the fact that Milena’s silk gown is not nearly so comforting, somehow, as Dragonfly’s battered leather armor.


	5. Chapter 5

Dragonfly is glad that Livi - _Oliwia Bartol, baroness of Denesle_ \- is settling in to Kaer Morhen well. When supper rolls around, Oliwia is seated beside Milena up at the Wolf table, garbed in a slightly-too-big green dress, clean and tidy, with her hair up in an elaborate braid, every inch the noble lady she truly is. She looks lovely - well, she always looks lovely, but she looks _better_ like this than she ever did on the road.

It’s good that she’s back with her own kind. She’ll forget Dragonfly, soon enough. Has probably forgotten her already. Which is _good_. Dragonfly’s far too fucking coarse and foul-tempered for a sweet little noble lass. Good for protection on the road, perhaps, but now they’re in Kaer Morhen, and Oliwia is under the protection of the Wolf himself; she doesn’t need a mere _Cat_ anymore.

“So,” Vesper says quietly, leaning over as the platters of food come around, “any reason you smell _sad_ , baby sister?”

“I’m barely two months younger than you are,” Dragonfly grumbles, elbowing her sister hard. “And I don’t smell sad.”

“Hate to say it, but you do,” Rach puts in from across the table. “Get your heart broken by a pretty whore again?”

“Fuck you,” Dragonfly snaps, and lashes out with her eating knife; Rach pulls her hand back well before the blow connects, long familiar with Dragonfly’s temper.

“Touchy,” she observes. “Spill, sister.”

“ _I_ think it has something to do with the pretty little thing up at the Wolf table,” Axel drawls. “The one who keeps stealing glances at us.”

“She what?” Dragonfly says, tensing sharply with the effort required not to whirl and stare up at the Wolf table. “She isn’t.”

“Oh, but she is,” Cedric says, grinning. “Looks downright hopeful, I’d say.”

They have to be lying. They _have_ to be. But Dragonfly can’t quite stop herself from turning and looking up at the Wolf table, and Oliwia meets her eyes and _smiles_ , bright and hopeful.

And then she turns and says something to Milena, and Milena grins and nods and makes a little gesture like someone shooing chickens, and Oliwia gets up and hurries around the end of the Wolf table, and down the length of the hall towards Dragonfly.

“Ooh,” Rach teases. “No, she _definitely_ wasn’t looking at you, was she.”

“Oh, shut it,” Dragonfly growls back. Oliwia stops a few feet away, fidgeting with her skirts and smelling nervous and hopeful and a little bit scared. “Liv - Oliwia.”

“It’s still Livi, if you like,” Oliwia says shyly. “I wanted to thank you again, for your escort here. For everything, really.”

“You’re welcome,” Dragonfly says gruffly, and Livi bobs a little curtsey and goes scurrying back to her seat by Milena. Dragonfly turns back to her plate.

“Huh,” Rach says. “She _is_ your type, isn’t she.”

“She’s a fuckin’ noble,” Dragonfly says. “And I’m not a stupid _Wolf_.”

“Hey,” Aiden says mildly. “That’s my stupid Wolf you’re insulting.”

Dragonfly makes a rude gesture at him, and pretends she doesn’t spend the rest of the meal sneaking glances up at Livi, who looks _distinctly_ uncomfortable up there at the head table, surrounded by Wolves. Nothing Dragonfly can do about that, or _should_ do. None of her business. Not at all.

She still hasn’t managed to convince herself of that before the next night’s supper, when Livi ventures down to the Cat table again, and stands there looking nervous and hopeful. “Ah,” she says when Dragonfly gives her a curious look, “Milena says humans may sit where they like, and I - if you’d allow, if you haven’t gotten quite sick of my company - I -” she breaks off and looks down at her feet. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to impose, I’ll just go -”

Dragonfly reaches out and snags her arm gently as she turns away. “Livi,” she says. “Sit down.”

Vesper scooches over, and Livi gives Dragonfly a look of incredulous delight and sits down between them. “Thank you,” she says, offering Dragonfly a sweet, shy smile, and then turning it on the other Cats watching the scene with deep amusement. “My apologies for intruding upon you all.”

“Eh, there’s plenty of room,” Vesper says. “And you’re clearly a very sensible sort of girl, if you’d rather sit with the Cats instead of that bunch of puppies.” She inclines her head at the end of the Wolf table, where Gweld and Gascaden have apparently decided to see how many mugs they can stack before the whole edifice falls over.

Livi giggles. “Are Cats much more sensible, then?” she asks. Dragonfly snags a spare plate and puts it in front of the girl, then starts filling it with Marlene’s good roast pork and stewed greens, and a thick slice of Julita’s crusty bread. Livi’s still too thin.

“Cats are all utterly insane,” Axel says cheerfully. “But we’re an awful lot of fun. What brings you to Kaer Morhen, then?”

Livi swallows and her shoulders hunch, scent going bitter with fear. Dragonfly wraps an arm around her shoulders in an almost instinctive attempt to shield her from whatever has scared her. Livi leans against her, and her scent loses that bitter edge, so Dragonfly keeps her arm around her. “My father agreed to marry me to Duke Velen, the king’s uncle,” Livi says quietly. “He’s old enough to be my grandfather, and he’s been married three times, all three to girls no older than I am now. None of them lived more than a year past their wedding. And there are - there are rumors that the peasant girls on his estates, if they’re too pretty, they go up to his manor and they don’t come back. Even the young ones. _Especially_ the young ones.” She grimaces like she’s bitten a lemon. “The rumors said the king ordered him to control himself so the White Wolf wouldn’t have any excuse to conquer the rest of Redania, but…” she trails off and shrugs. “He offered for me, and my father agreed. So I...ran.”

“Huh,” Rach says. “You tell the Wolf about that?”

“Yes,” Livi says.

Rach turns to Axel. “Ten crowns on a month.”

“Nah, six weeks,” Vesper says, shaking her head. “He’s still grumpy about Temeria.”

“Three weeks,” Cedric disagrees. “You know he moves fast when he’s made up his mind, and this has been a long time coming.”

“What are they betting on?” Livi whispers to Dragonfly.

“How soon the Wolf will move to finish conquering Redania,” Dragonfly says, shrugging.

“Because of _me_?” Livi squeaks.

“Nah,” Dragonfly says. “Well. Sort of. Because that treaty the Wolf rammed down Vizimir’s throat said he had to fucking keep his nobles under control, and if this fucker Velen is up to this sort of nastiness, well, that means Vizimir’s not keeping to the treaty, doesn’t it?”

“Oh,” Livi says, voice very small.

Rach grins at her, a gleeful feral expression. “Don’t look so worried, girl; we’re looking forward to it. Redania’s been a thorn in the Wolf’s side for a while now, but he’s too fucking honorable to go and finish conquering them for _personal_ reasons, so we’ve been waiting for something like this.”

“ _I’m_ not that honorable,” Dragonfly says. “Think he’d let me gut this Velen fucker myself?”

Axel hums thoughtfully. “If you catch him, probably,” he decides at last. “Specially if the Wolf can claim he didn’t know a damn thing about it.”

Livi says faintly, “You’ll kill him?”

Dragonfly grins down at her, showing all her teeth. “Unless you’d rather do it yourself,” she says.

Livi swallows hard and ducks her head, peering up at Dragonfly through her eyelashes. “Not really,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Haven’t done it yet,” Dragonfly points out.

“No,” Livi says softly, “but you want to, which is more than any of my kinsfolk did.”

Dragonfly decides that if she ever meets any of Livi’s kinsfolk, they’ll regret it. Briefly.

“We’ll look out for you,” Vesper says, twirling a knife between her fingers. “You may be under the Wolf’s protection, but more importantly, you’re under the protection of the _Cats_ now.”

Livi squeaks a little giggle, and leans her head against Dragonfly’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

She stays tucked under Dragonfly’s arm the whole rest of dinner, and Dragonfly barely tastes Marlene’s wonderful cooking, far too distracted by the scent of contentment and the way Livi nestles close against her side.

*

Oliwia wakes up her second morning in Kaer Morhen and lies still for a long moment, basking in the warmth of the heavy blankets, the thick stone walls, the knowledge that she is safe at last. She is under the protection of the White Wolf - and of the School of the Cat, apparently - and even Duke Velen cannot reach her here. Even her father will not dare demand her return, not from the Warlord himself.

There’s a tap on her door, and Oliwia sits up, tugging a blanket around her shoulders, and calls, “Hello?”

“Livi, sweet?” Milena says. “I’m going down for my morning bath - would you like to join us?”

Oliwia slides out of bed, tucking her feet into the thick slippers Milena and the Wardrobe Mistress both told her were _absolutely essential_ , and calls, “Just a moment, I’ll be right out!”

She saw the baths yesterday - Milena brought her down after she finally woke up, exhausted as she was from her travels, and thankfully at midafternoon they were fairly empty - and it’s going to take her a _while_ to get used to communal bathing, but nobody so much as leered at her, and according to Milena the mornings are fairly quiet, so she’ll be alright. She digs through the chest of clothing at the foot of her new bed, and pauses for a moment, looking at the heap of cloth in her hands. The Wardrobe Mistress didn’t have any _dresses_ on hand, but she had both skirts and trousers suited for a girl Oliwia’s size, and Oliwia asked for some of each. She’s gotten to rather _like_ trousers, this last half a month traveling across the Wolf’s lands. They’re awfully comfortable, and she can _move_ so much more easily.

Slowly, she puts a skirt down, and picks up a pair of trousers instead. She’s in Kaer Morhen, and _most_ of the women here seem to wear trousers. _Dragonfly_ does, and her sisters, and the armed women at the Viper table, and the less terrifying sorceress, and even the young princess. It’s only Milena and Liliana and Lady Yennefer who wear dresses every day, apparently. Surely it will be alright if Oliwia wears trousers, at least sometimes. She likes skirts for dancing and for looking pretty, but for everyday...for everyday, trousers might be easier.

She bundles them up with a tunic and some smallclothes and a bath sheet, and goes out to join Milena, head held high.

Milena smiles at her and leads the way down to the baths, where a rather surprising number of people are already crowded into one of the larger human-safe pools waiting for them. Consort Jaskier is the only man, which is something of a relief, but there are half a dozen women and girls: young Princess Ciri and Lady Liliana, Lady Yennefer and Lady Triss, one of the women Oliwia saw at the Viper table last night, and a sandy-haired woman of perhaps Milena’s years whom Oliwia has never seen before. All of them, of course, are naked, save for silver medallions around most throats; Oliwia feels rather more naked without one.

Milena shrugs out of her robe and slides into the water as though it’s utterly normal to do so, so Oliwia sets her jaw and does the same. Everyone offers her friendly smiles, and Milena says, “I don’t think you met Zofia or Julita last night; Zofia is my dear friend, and is affiliated with the Viper School, and Julita is the junior baker and also the steward’s daughter. My friends, this is Lady Oliwia of Denesle, who is under the Wolf’s protection.”

Oliwia bobs her head to Zofia and Julita. “Call me Livi, please,” she offers. “I expect I’m going to be disowned as soon as my father finds out I’m here, if I haven’t been already.”

Consort Jaskier chuckles and offers a hand across the pool. “Join the club, my lady! If we get a third member, we shall have to have pins made or something.”

Oliwia giggles and takes his hand, and he bows briefly over it. “It is an honor to be so allied with you, my lord.”

Consort Jaskier laughs again and releases her hand to lounge back against the pool’s side again. “And let’s have that be the last time you worry about ‘my lord’ing me,” he says merrily. “Kaer Morhen is not much for titles, I’m afraid.”

“I think I have had enough of titles and noble privileges,” Oliwia says thoughtfully. “Shall it be ‘Jaskier,’ then?”

Consort Jaskier grins. “Well, unless you want to give me a nickname. I’ve got a fair handful by now.”

Lady Yennefer snorts and reaches out to ruffle his hair. “Little flower,” she says fondly.

“Songbird,” Zofia of the Vipers says, grinning.

“Buttercup,” Milena giggles.

“Papa’s little lark,” Princess Ciri chimes in, counting the names off on her fingers. “Uncle Eskel’s catmint, and my Jas. Are we missing any?”

“Does ‘bard’ count?” Consort Jaskier asks. “I mean, it’s just sort of a descriptor, really.”

“I think you have enough nicknames without adding that to the heap,” Lady Triss opines.

“Fair enough,” Consort Jaskier agrees. “Though you’re still welcome to give me one if you like, Livi dear.”

Oliwia can’t help giggling, and it’s very, very good to be - to be safe enough to _do_ that, to sit here in the warm water with so many happy people, and giggle at the ridiculous list of nicknames that Consort Jaskier has managed to accumulate.

Lady Triss hands her a bar of soap, and Consort Jaskier winks at Lady Yennefer and splashes Princess Ciri, and the conversation ends in favor of cleanliness and gleeful shrieks as the young princess attempts to drown her father’s consort. Oliwia finds herself exchanging a look of amusement with Julita as they both duck behind Lady Triss to avoid a particularly energetic splash, and Julita grins and winks, and Oliwia thinks, somewhat to her surprise, that she’s going to have _friends_ here. People who don’t care about her father’s rank, about their _own_ ranks, about Redanian ideas of propriety.

She’s not even the only woman putting trousers on when they all get out of the bath. Princess Ciri does, and Lady Triss, and Zofia. No one even gives her a funny look.

Consort Jaskier emerges last, and Oliwia looks away while he dries himself and dresses. She’s not quite ready to deal with random naked men without the slightly-hazy veil of water as a shield.

“Right!” Consort Jaskier says once he’s mostly dressed, sitting down to pull his boots on. “Breakfast! And then I suppose we should figure out what you’d like to do here, Livi. Did you want to be one of Ciri’s ladies-in-waiting?”

Oliwia opens her mouth to agree - it’s a very great honor to be offered such a position - and then closes it again thoughtfully. _Most_ princesses have half a dozen ladies-in-waiting, to care for their wardrobes and correspondence and personal grooming, but Princess Ciri doesn’t seem to need that much help. “I would be honored, if the young princess desires my service,” she says at last. Milena is watching her thoughtfully, eyebrows raised a little; Princess Ciri has her head cocked to one side and is considering her with unnervingly calm green eyes. “But if the young princess would have little work for me, I would prefer to do something...useful, please.”

“Huh,” Consort Jaskier says, getting his second boot on properly and rising, and herds them all ahead of him out of the bathing room. “What skills do you have, then? I can safely assume needlework, I should think.”

Oliwia grins ruefully. “Yes, though I’m better at plain mending than embroidery.”

Princess Ciri giggles. “I’m _terrible_ at embroidery,” she says. “I don’t know how Milena can make it look so effortless.”

“Long years of practice,” Milena says. “Also I enjoy it a great deal, which helps. Oh! Zofia, I’ve that tunic ready for you, whenever you’d like to come and get it.”

“Lovely!” Zofia says. “I’ll come by after sparring, then. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Milena assures her.

Oliwia can’t help grinning: it’s good to see Milena so happy, so _settled_ in this strange place, with friends around her and a liege lady who clearly admires her greatly. “To answer your question properly,” she says to Consort Jaskier as they reach the great hall, “I write a very good hand, and have helped keep my father’s accounts and manage his estate these last three years; I play the harpsichord and the rebec; I’m quite good in the stillroom; and I’ve just recently learnt to ride astride.”

Consort Jaskier chuckles, and then hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the table as they all settle into seats - no one seems to care about separate tables during breakfast. There’s a brief bustle of passing oat porridge and honey and fruit around, and Oliwia is delighted to discover there is apple juice alongside the small beer. She’s pouring honey onto her porridge when Consort Jaskier says, “So, how do you think you would like being secretary to our Wolf’s right hand?”

Oliwia turns to stare at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Eskel desperately needs an assistant of some sort,” Consort Jaskier explains. “Has for years. If you’ve been managing your father’s estate, you’ve almost certainly got the sorts of skills he needs in a secretary. I promise he’s a complete sweetheart, and he’d be overjoyed to have the help. But if you think you can’t work that closely with a Witcher -”

“I can,” Oliwia says hastily. “I _will_.” It’s - it’s _nothing_ she could ever have been offered in Redania; no one in Redania would dream of letting a mere viscount’s daughter act as an assistant to the man who is essentially the prime minister. And it’s maybe a _little_ frightening to think of spending hours in the close company of any man, but - well, Milena’s letters, when they mentioned Eskel Amber-Eyed, said he was the calmest and gentlest of the Wolves. So. “At the very least,” she finishes, “I would be honored to try.”

Consort Jaskier nods briskly. “Done, then. You can spend the morning with Milena; after dinner I’ll introduce you to Eskel, and he can show you what he needs.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dragonfly spends her mornings back in Kaer Morhen sparring, and enjoys the hell out of it, as usual. She’ll say this much for the horde of idiot boys infesting the place: they make good sparring partners. Bears are always fun to dance around and annoy; Manticores have such _interesting_ poisons on their blades; and the Cranes are all utterly insane but she has to admit their ridiculous new weaponry is often a lot of fun to play with. And best of all, always, is sparring with her siblings, the fastest, sneakiest, deadliest warriors in Kaer Morhen.

...Well, deadliest but for the White Wolf; Dragonfly _has_ sparred with him, and finds it deeply annoying that so large a man can move so fast.

The baths are as much of a pleasure as they always are, and then, at dinner on their second full day back, Livi is waiting hesitantly beside the Cat table, looking hopeful. Dragonfly pats the seat next to hers as she sits down, and Livi takes the silent invitation at once.

“Settling in alright?” Rach asks as she takes her own seat across the table from them.

“I hope so,” Livi says. “I’m to start assisting Lord Eskel after dinner.”

“Huh,” Vesper says, sliding onto the bench on Livi’s other side. “Well, he’s not a bad sort, really. Fucking irritating Quen, but that won’t bother _you_ any.”

“Fucking _Quen_ ,” Aiden agrees, plopping down next to Rach. “Worse’n a damn Griffin with it.”

“What’s a Quen?” Livi whispers to Dragonfly.

“You saw the shields we used, sparring, the gold ones?” Dragonfly asks, and Livi nods. “That’s Quen.”

“What was the blue wave, then?” Livi asks. “And - is Lord Eskel good at that, too?”

“That one’s Aard, and yeah, Eskel’s good at _all_ the Signs,” Dragonfly says. “You should see the fucker use Igni - looks like a damned dragon’s breath.”

Livi swallows hard. “But he’s - he’s not - ah -” Her scent is starting to tinge with fear.

Dragonfly doesn’t whack herself in the head for her own stupidity, but it’s close. She turns to look at Livi square-on, and takes Livi’s hands, which have knotted themselves together in her lap. “I tell you true,” she says quietly, and Livi looks up at her, wide-eyed and hopeful. “If there’s a single Witcher I’d call _gentle_ , in any fucking sense of the word, it’s Eskel fucking Amber-Eyed.”

It’s not just the White Wolf who’s too damned noble for his own good, after all; his shadow’s the same way, just quieter about it. And it’s not like _Livi_ is going to be stupid enough to hurt the Wolf and rouse Eskel’s temper.

“Oh,” Livi says, and, slowly, smiles. The fear-scent fades away. “Thank you.”

“Also he’s only got eyes for the Wolf and Buttercup,” Aiden puts in.

“That, too,” Dragonfly agrees. “I can walk you up to his office after dinner, if you like.”

“Please?” Livi says, giving her a hopeful look.

“No trouble at all,” Dragonfly assures her. “What’re you supposed to be assisting him _with_?”

“Paperwork and the administration of the Wolf’s lands,” Livi says, shrugging. “Much what I’ve done for my father, these last few years, only more so, I expect.”

“Oh ugh, paperwork,” Aiden says. “Thank fuck nobody ever expects _me_ to do any.”

“That’s because they know you’d put filthy jokes in everywhere,” Rach says.

“And because I’d get bored and probably fall asleep and drool all over the important parchments,” Aiden agrees easily.

“It doesn’t have to be boring,” Livi says. Dragonfly arches an eyebrow at her.

“No?”

“No, really, it doesn’t,” Livi says, grinning up at her. “You can - if you’re doing it right, anyhow - you can figure out all _sorts_ of things just by looking at grain reports and things like that.”

Dragonfly gives her a _deeply_ skeptical look. “Grain reports.”

“Yes,” Livi says, and sketches a shape in the air. “For instance, there was an incident last year in my father’s lands, with an incipient feud between two towns; we figured it out before anything went too wrong, because the grain wagons from one town started taking twice as long to reach my father’s warehouses, because they were taking a detour to avoid even getting _close_ to the other town.”

Dragonfly blinks. That’s...not something she would have figured out in a thousand years of peering at columns of figures on a parchment.

“Huh,” Rach says, leaning forward. “What sort of things did you look for, to find that out?”

“The drovers’ pay, the wear and tear on the wagons - one of them lost a wheel and had to be repaired four villages south of where it _ought_ to have been on the straightest road - a whole different set of complaints about road quality…” Livi trails off and shrugs. “Once you know the patterns of how a land’s rhythms _ought_ to work, it gets much easier to spot the _breaks_ in the pattern.”

“Not so different from figuring out which monster it is we’re after,” Dragonfly muses, entertained by the idea of paperwork being at all similar to her own bloodier profession. “Look for the things that’re out of place.”

“I suppose it must be,” Livi says, smiling. “But I think I will leave the monster hunting to you.”

“I’m certainly going to leave the fucking paperwork to _you_ ,” Dragonfly snorts. “Give me a kikimora any day. At least I can _stab_ the kikimora.”

Livi considers that, and offers an impish smile that makes her eyes light up like stars. “You could use Igni on the paperwork, I suppose.”

Aiden whoops with laughter. Dragonfly snorts. “You just let me know if you want me to,” she offers. “Have us a proper little bonfire, roast some honeycakes over the coals…”

Livi giggles so hard she ends up slumping against Dragonfly’s shoulder, shaking with mirth, and Dragonfly curls her arm more snugly around the girl’s waist and breathes in the glorious sweet scent of pure, unadulterated _happiness_.

Rach makes a soft sound, and Dragonfly looks up to meet her sister’s eyes. Rach flicks a quick glance at Livi, tucked so contentedly beneath Dragonfly’s arm, and raises her eyebrow just a fraction. Dragonfly takes a moment to thank the fuckers who designed the Grasses that she can’t fucking _blush_. Yes, she knows she’s gone on the girl. Yes, she knows it’s not smart. Rach can shut the fuck up.

Rach smirks, just slightly, and shakes her head a little, and - thank fuck - decides to amuse herself by stealing the last bread roll from under Aiden’s nose, and Livi laughs even harder at the ridiculous wrestling match which ensues. Dragonfly thoughtfully reaches out and snags the now-forgotten roll, splits and butters it, and hands half to Livi with a wink. Livi giggles and takes it with a whispered word of thanks.

 _Fuck_ , Dragonfly thinks, mouth full of good bread and sweet butter, nose full of the scent of Livi’s joy. This is...this is not going to go away easily.

Cats are a hell of a lot better with their emotions than Wolves or Vipers or fucking _Bears_ , but Dragonfly can honestly say she has _no fucking clue_ what to do about _this_.

*

Oliwia isn’t sure what to expect of Eskel Amber-Eyed. He’s not as intimidating as the White Wolf; on the other hand, she’s not meant to be spending hours each day at the White Wolf’s side. Lord Eskel _is_ rather startling to look on, with those terrible scars, but on the other hand, if he’s anything like Gweld, then he might be quite pleasant company.

And Dragonfly has promised he is a gentleman, which means a lot coming from her.

Still, she’s grateful for Dragonfly’s presence at her shoulder as Consort Jaskier opens a nondescript door to reveal an office in...considerable disarray. There’s clearly been an _effort_ to keep things organized - the piles of paper on the broad table _are_ distinct piles, not slumped heaps, and the books and ledgers on the shelves are filed neatly upright, with heavy stones as bookends - but equally clearly, the sheer _volume_ of paperwork has begun to overwhelm its keeper.

“Catmint,” the Witcher behind the desk - Eskel Amber-Eyed himself - says, smiling. “Lady Oliwia; Dragonfly. Come to help me with my filing?”

“Fuck no,” Dragonfly says, shuddering.

Consort Jaskier chuckles and crosses the room to kiss Lord Eskel. Oliwia doesn’t gape, but it’s a _damned_ near thing. The White Wolf’s consort and his _second-in-command_ \- but they wouldn’t kiss so publicly if it wasn’t _known_ \- but the _scandal_ -

Consort Jaskier turns back to face her and winces a little at whatever expression she’s wearing. “Oh dear,” he says. “Nobody warned you yet, did they.”

“No,” Oliwia squeaks, though perhaps Aiden saying Lord Eskel ‘only has eyes for the Wolf and Buttercup’ was _meant_ to be a warning, in hindsight.

Dragonfly snorts, and waves a hand at Consort Jaskier and Lord Eskel. “Shit, didn’t even think to mention it. They’re fucking, them and the White Wolf.”

“Crude but remarkably accurate,” Consort Jaskier sighs. “ _I_ might have said we are wrapped in the bonds of love, which no blade shall sever, nor no fire consume, but that’s me.”

Oliwia giggles, half amusement, half shock. In Tretogor - in Tretogor, no man would _ever_ have admitted to having a male lover, and while obviously it’s different here where the White Wolf himself has a male consort, to admit that _both_ of them have taken yet a _third_ man into their bed - and, it seems, into their _hearts_ \- is -

Well, in Tretogor it would be a scandal vast enough to occupy everyone at court for the next _decade_. In Kaer Morhen, apparently, it’s...completely normal and so utterly unremarkable that everyone forgot to warn the newcomer.

“You cribbed that from the _Ballad of the Dread Pirate and His Bride_ ,” she says once she’s gotten herself properly under control again.

“Caught!” Consort Jaskier laughs, and Lord Eskel snorts and shakes his head in wry amusement.

“Shoo, catmint,” he says, voice warm. “Stop traumatizing my new assistant.”

Consort Jaskier sticks his tongue out at Lord Eskel, winks at Oliwia, and saunters out. Dragonfly looks down at Oliwia and raises an eyebrow. “Want me to stick around, Livi?”

Oliwia looks at Lord Eskel - who is slightly less intimidating after seeing him tease Consort Jaskier, though still _entirely_ too broad across the shoulders and grim-faced to be reassuring - and then at the heaps of paper on the broad table, takes a deep breath, and shakes her head. “You’d be bored enough to start setting things on fire,” she says. “But I thank you for your escort. I shall see you at supper?”

“Count on it, lovely,” Dragonfly says, and then her eyes go _huge_ and she almost bolts out the door. Oliwia stands there staring after her in mild shock. _Lovely?_

Lord Eskel chuckles softly. “Cats,” he says, in tones of deep amusement.

Oliwia shakes herself a little and turns and gives him a bow, since trousers don’t lend themselves well to curtseying. “I am at your disposal, my lord.”

“Well, for starters you can stop calling me that,” Lord Eskel sighs. “Jaskier told me you could help, but I’m not entirely sure what skills you have…” he trails off and raises an expectant eyebrow at her.

“Well,” Oliwia says, gesturing to the table heaped with parchments, “to begin with, I think I can probably put this into some sort of order, and I know what sort of cabinets and ledgers you’ll want to keep it that way.”

Lord Eskel _grins_ , the scars making the cheerful expression ugly. “If you can do that and nothing more, I’ll be in your debt,” he admits. “I do my best, but Witcher training simply doesn’t _cover_ dealing with this sort of thing. Thank fuck we have Jan - if I’d still been running the household accounts, too, I think I would have run off to Skellige by now.”

Oliwia nods. “Give me leave to look through them today, then, and I shall have some recommendations for you by suppertime?” She can _probably_ look through everything by supper - and if she does, surely that will prove her worth, at least a little.

“Take all the time you need,” Lord Eskel says, nodding. “And ask me any questions which occur to you.”

“Thank you,” Oliwia says, and decides to start with the table rather than the bookshelves.

The piles of parchment, she discovers, are each the reports from a given fief within the Wolf’s lands, and they’ve been arranged on the table so they’re very roughly in geographical order. The enormous map on one wall has each fief neatly outlined and labeled, and bits of parchment pinned to it; Oliwia moves a little closer and discovers that each parchment scrap has a lord’s name and a note of some sort on it. _Filip of Daevon - polite & reliable_, says one; another reads _Maksymilian of Buki - competent asshole_. She stifles a giggle. The map will definitely be helpful, and the notes as well, though they lack a fair bit of information Oliwia would rather like to have. It takes her a minute or two to work up the courage to ask, though; Lord Eskel looks _very_ deep in concentration. But he did say to ask, and it _is_ information she needs. She bites her lip hard and twists her fingers together behind a fold of her trousers, and turns to Lord Eskel. “Have you a record of the genealogy of the lords of the Wolf’s lands?” she asks. Lord Eskel looks up from his reading and frowns.

“I don’t know that we do,” he says slowly. “Should we?”

“Well, yes,” Oliwia says. He doesn’t sound angry, at least, so she ventures to add, “If you haven’t got one, you might want to send to the White Wolf’s vassal-kings for copies of their records.”

Lord Eskel props his chin on a fist and regards her thoughtfully. “Explain.”

“The more you know about who is related to whom, and how closely, the more you’ll know about the alliances and possible feuds among your vassals,” Oliwia says. “It means you can sometimes predict problems before they happen, or even prevent them altogether.” She’s a little baffled that she _has_ to explain this - it’s the sort of thing every noble daughter is taught, and she assumes noble sons as well. But then, she doesn’t think most Witchers come from noble blood.

“I _like_ preventing problems,” Lord Eskel says. “It’s vastly preferable to running about putting out fires. Alright, you know what we apparently need; go ahead and draft a letter I can send to Szymon of Kaedwen and Griffin of Temeria and Grzegorz up in Caingorn. I suppose we should send to Gwidon down in Aedirn, too, but something tells me Vizimir won’t be quite as cooperative...not that that will matter for much longer.” He grins, showing a rather alarming array of very white teeth, and gestures to one of the bookshelves. “Spare parchment and ink over there, and if you like you can use this desk while I go and see if Jan can find us some sort of smaller writing desk for you.”

Oliwia nods, and Lord Eskel rises and leaves her _entirely alone_ in the office of the right hand of the Warlord of the North.

How the _hells_ is Kaer Morhen not overrun with spies?

Oliwia knows it _isn’t_ , because one of the most common laments in Tretogor is the general inability to know or even to _guess_ what the White Wolf is currently doing. But regardless of who vouches for her, it makes no sense to leave a newcomer alone in _this_ room, of all the rooms in the keep.

She finds a slate and chalk beside the stack of blank parchment and sits down to start drafting a letter to King Szymon of Kaedwen, because she doesn’t quite know what else to do. But she’s still thoroughly baffled. Perhaps she’ll raise the matter with Consort Jaskier, who ought to understand her confusion.

She’s gotten a fair draft done by the time Lord Eskel returns, carrying - in his _own hands_ , not borne by a servant - a small writing desk. A servant, behind him, has the chair to go with it. They set the furniture up in one corner, and the servant gives Oliwia a grin and heads off again. Oliwia rises and offers the slate to Lord Eskel. “Will this suit?”

He takes the slate and scans it quickly, shrugs, and hands it back. “Looks polite enough to me. Can we use the same wording for all of them?”

“All your vassals, yes,” Oliwia says. “King Gwidon’s should be a little different, because he’s not actually obliged to obey the Wolf.”

Lord Eskel nods. “Write them up,” he says, “and I’ll have Yen look them over and send them along.”

Oliwia bows a little, and takes a few sheets of parchment, and settles at the little desk. This was not quite what she expected to be doing, but - well, it’s something she _can_ do, a duty to which she is suited, a way to serve the Warlord under whose protection she now stands. And it’s a lot more trust than she’s ever been given before.

She’ll requite it.

By the time Lord Eskel finally rises and says, “I’m for a bath before supper,” Oliwia has drafted the letters to all four monarchs and gotten a fairly good start on sifting through the papers piled on the big table. They’re reports: harvest reports, taxation reports, road quality reports, yearly records of banditry and monster incursions and criminals executed, all of them stacked neatly with the newest on the top of the pile. There are _not_ , however, ledgers recording all of the information in a format which will be easy to track and compare from one fief to the next; when Oliwia describes such ledgers to Lord Eskel, he blinks at her for a while, then rubs his forehead and sighs.

“Should have thought of that myself,” he says. “Alright. I’ll talk to Jan - no, I’ll have Jan find _you_ and ask you what you need.” He gives her a crooked smile, and Oliwia finds herself returning it. “Might be I’ll even get my table back one of these days.”

“Even _without_ me asking Dragonfly to light all the paperwork on fire,” Oliwia agrees without quite realizing she’s going to say it, and Lord Eskel makes a rueful face.

“Don’t tempt me,” he says.

Oliwia giggles, and bows, and goes to change for dinner. She doesn’t need two baths in a day, usually, but it seems appropriate to wash her hands and face and maybe even put on a dress. Milena said there’s sometimes dancing after dinner, after all, and dancing is always better in a dress.

...And maybe, if there _is_ dancing, Dragonfly might - might like to dance with her. She’s so graceful when she’s fighting, she’d surely be just as good at dancing. If nothing else, it cannot hurt to _ask_.


	7. Chapter 7

Dragonfly isn’t quite sure how she’s ended up dancing with Livi - for the fourth time in two weeks, no less - but she can’t deny she likes it. Livi is a warm, pleasant armful, and she leans into Dragonfly’s hands so trustingly, absolutely sure Dragonfly will not let her fall. Dragonfly’s not the best dancer in Kaer Morhen - not even the best of the _Cats_ , for that matter - but she’s light on her feet and she learns fast, and Livi doesn’t seem to mind the missteps.

She’s been _blossoming_ , here in Kaer Morhen. It’s really quite something to see. Two weeks she’s been working with Eskel, and when Dragonfly walked her up yesterday after dinner and poked her head in, the big table was half-empty and there was a _stack_ of ledgers as tall as Livi is sitting by Eskel’s desk waiting to be filled, and Eskel murmured, “ _Best assistant ever,”_ too quietly for a human to hear. Livi clearly thrives on the work: she has tales of what she’s done each night at supper, and almost glows with pleasure when she recounts the compliments Eskel has given her on her cleverness and organizational ability. She’s clearly lost all fear of Eskel, and doesn’t flinch from any of the male Cats anymore, except occasionally Kiyan - which is fair, Kiyan can be unsettling even to other Cats - and she’s gotten fairly comfortable with most of the Wolves, too, and some of the Griffins. Dragonfly figures being wary of the other Schools is honestly more sensible than otherwise.

And for all that Livi is such a sweet little thing that she could easily find a seat anywhere in the hall, she keeps coming to sit beside Dragonfly, leaning against Dragonfly’s shoulder and smelling utterly contented when Dragonfly wraps an arm around her. It’s - it’s _distressingly_ pleasant. Rach and Vesper keep giving Dragonfly knowing looks, though thankfully they haven’t said anything in Livi’s hearing yet, and Aiden likes to wiggle his eyebrows outrageously and smirk whenever Livi isn’t looking.

Dragonfly should probably say something to Livi, but - well - she’s not a too-noble Wolf. She’s a _Cat_ , and she’ll enjoy the small pleasures she has while she has them. Livi will doubtless find some chivalrous Griffin or charming Crane sooner or later, but until then, Dragonfly will take what she can get: the scent of Livi’s joy, the sound of her laughter, the heat of her skin through the wool and silk of her tunics and dresses.

The previous three dancing nights, Livi has stayed out on the floor until the bard finally got too tired to keep playing. Tonight, though, after three or four dances she winces like her feet hurt. Dragonfly stomps firmly on the urge to pick her up. “Are you alright, Livi?”

At least she hasn’t gone and called her _lovely_ again. _That_ was...worrying. Dragonfly usually has better control over her tongue than that.

“Just a bit footsore,” Livi says. “I was running back and forth to the library all afternoon. I think I might be done with dancing for tonight.”

“Alright,” Dragonfly says, and hesitates. This is a terrible idea. She’s going to do it anyhow, but it’s a terrible idea. “Would you - would you want to go sit on the battlements? It’s a nice evening. Quieter there.”

Livi grins up at her. “Only if you’ll carry me,” she says, like that’s even a _drawback_. Dragonfly doesn’t even bother responding, just scoops Livi up in her arms. Livi giggles, a happy bubbly little noise, and wraps an arm around Dragonfly’s shoulders, and Dragonfly carries her off, trying hard not to feel like some sort of triumphant warrior bearing away a prize beyond price from some mighty battle. She hasn’t fought any battles for Livi yet, after all.

The night is warm and pleasant, but the battlements are deserted save for the two of them; Dragonfly picks a corner and settles down with her back to the stone and Livi in her lap. Livi sighs in obvious contentment.

“You’re - you’re doing better than you were,” Dragonfly says after a while, rather awkwardly. “Not jumping at shadows so much.”

“Yes, well, the shadows are much less terrifying here,” Livi says. “The worst thing in the shadows _here_ is going to be a Witcher, after all, and aside from your rather disconcerting eyeshine, I’ve yet to find anything about Witchers that is half as terrifying as - well. As old Lord Velen, or the men I encountered on my way to the border.”

Dragonfly growls a little, without really meaning to. “No one will ever lay a hand on you again,” she promises. “If they do, I’ll cut it the fuck _off_.”

Livi giggles, which Dragonfly doesn’t think is the _usual_ way noble ladies respond to bloodthirsty promises of vengeance on their behalves, but is rather reassuring all the same. “I’ve always liked the old romantic stories,” she muses, snuggling back a little more securely into Dragonfly’s embrace and tipping her head back against Dragonfly’s shoulder, apparently looking up at the stars. “I half thought maybe a knight would come and rescue me, like in the stories, swoop me up on his white horse and carry me away to safety.”

“You rescued yourself,” Dragonfly says awkwardly. “And I’m - I’m no sort of knight.” If Livi wants a knight, she should be snuggling up to a _Griffin_ , not a beat-up Cat -

“No,” Livi says, and squirms around until she can smile up at Dragonfly, broad and sweet, smelling like honey and lavender and joy. “You’re _better_. You’re real.”

Dragonfly swallows hard. “I am?”

“Oh yes,” Livi says, and Dragonfly can’t look away from Livi’s eyes, green as emeralds even in the darkness. “Far better.” She hesitates a little, bites her lip. “When a knight rescues a maiden,” Livi says at last, scent starting to fill with nervousness, “traditionally, the maiden rewards them with a kiss.”

“Still say you rescued yourself,” Dragonfly rasps, throat dry. “But - ah -” She reaches out to cup Livi’s cheek in her palm. “Lovely Livi, if you want to kiss me, I’ll never say you nay.”

Livi leans into Dragonfly’s caress. “I mightn’t be any good at it.”

“I don’t care,” Dragonfly says, blunt and honest. “I’ll teach you, if you like.”

Livi smiles, a sweet slow curve of her mouth that makes Dragonfly’s Witcher-slow heart turn over in her chest, and leans forward. “Teach me, then,” she whispers, breath warm against Dragonfly’s lips.

Dragonfly leans forward, and presses their lips together. Livi makes a tiny, formless sound, and winds her arms around Dragonfly’s neck, and lets herself be kissed, parting her lips and sighing with pleasure when Dragonfly dares to introduce her tongue into the matter. She smells of joy and contentment and rising lust, and she’s warm and compact and _perfect_ on Dragonfly’s lap, and Dragonfly could be perfectly happy to stay right here in this moment for the rest of her life.

“Oh,” Livi murmurs as their lips part at last - not far, just far enough that Dragonfly can open her eyes and admire the expression of dazed pleasure on Livi’s lovely face. “Oh, I _like_ that. May I have another?”

“You can have as many kisses as you want,” Dragonfly says, a little hoarsely.

Livi smiles and leans in, and Dragonfly does her best to make this second kiss good enough to earn a third. She must do _something_ right, because Livi curls closer, trusting her whole weight to Dragonfly’s arms without hesitation, and makes tiny pleased noises deep in her throat, and lets two kisses turn into three, into ten, into what Dragonfly realizes after a while has been nearly half an hour of soft, ecstatic kissing.

Livi looks _amazing_ when Dragonfly leans back a little to let the girl breathe. Her skin is too dark to show a flush well, especially at night, but her eyes are sparkling and her lips are kiss-swollen and she looks so happy it’s almost dazzling. She _smells_ happy, too, a sweet glorious smell that Dragonfly could gladly _drown_ in, given the chance.

She tucks her head under Dragonfly’s chin and sighs in utter contentment, and Dragonfly wraps one arm a little more firmly around her waist and strokes the other over her hair and wonders how stupid it would be to just fall asleep like this. It’s a warm night, even up here in the mountains, and Dragonfly’s slept in worse places before, and if she doesn’t get up, she won’t have to let go of Livi.

“So when you said you prefer women,” Livi says, breath puffing softly against Dragonfly’s collarbone, “this _is_ what you meant?”

“This is what I meant,” Dragonfly agrees, and then has a _horrid_ thought. “This - this isn’t because you think you’ve _gotta_ , because I found you, right?”

Livi sits up and meets Dragonfly’s eyes squarely, not a hint of a lie in her posture or her scent. “Not even _slightly_ ,” she says. “I - I feel _safe_ with you, like nothing can ever harm me so long as I am in your arms, and I like the way you say my name, and I think you’re _gorgeous_ , and kissing you is far, far better than it ever was with the boys I flirted with in Tretogor.”

Dragonfly has a lot of feelings about _all_ of that, but what comes out of her traitorous mouth is, “You think I’m _what_?”

“Gorgeous,” Livi says, with a broad sweet smile. “I could watch you spar _forever_ , and your eyes are like honey in the sunlight, and I _desperately_ want to braid your hair someday.” She traces a gentle finger over the scar on Dragonfly’s cheek. “It’s a bit cliche to compare you to a cat, I suppose, but once, years ago, Mother took me to Zerrikania, to visit her distant cousins, and the lord had a hunting park with lions in it. We got quite close to the pride - I think he was showing off - and I’ve never forgotten the way the lionesses _moved_ , sleek and elegant and dangerous, like they weren’t afraid of anything. You move like that.”

“Oh,” Dragonfly says, struck nearly dumb with baffled shock.

Livi thinks she’s _gorgeous_.

What the fuck is she supposed to do with _that_?

Reciprocate, presumably?

“You’re lovely,” she says. “And - fuck, so brave, and clever, and stubborn.”

Livi giggles a little. “Stubborn’s not usually a compliment, to noblewomen.”

“It is to Witchers,” Dragonfly says. “You wouldn’t have made it here, if you weren’t stubborn as you are brave.” She snorts. “Y’know why Eskel calls the bard ‘catmint’?”

“No,” Livi says, frowning. “Why?”

“Beauty and courage and talent,” Dragonfly says. “Witcher catmint. Fucking _intoxicating_. And you, you’re - you’re beauty and courage and cleverness, stubbornness and sweetness and warmth -” the words tangle on her tongue, not quite what she wants to say but not _wrong_ either, and Livi smiles like sunshine and cups a hand around Dragonfly’s cheek and leans in, and yeah, kissing sounds like a _much_ better idea than abjectly failing to articulate why Livi is so damned _appealing_.

Livi seems perfectly happy to go back to kissing, making soft pleased sounds against Dragonfly’s mouth whenever Dragonfly nips gently at her lips or tugs her closer, her slight weight and warmth a glorious distraction. Dragonfly’s pretty sure a fucking greater dragon could land on the battlements next to them and she wouldn’t notice, not when Livi smells like happiness and lust and keeps pressing closer, hands stroking over Dragonfly’s hair and shoulders and the vulnerable nape of her neck. Ordinarily, Dragonfly would object _strenuously_ to anyone touching her there, but - but Livi can. Livi is safe. Livi is Dragonfly’s to _keep_ safe, and she has never been safer than she is now, sprawled across Dragonfly’s lap on the battlements of the most well-defended keep on the continent, wrapped in Dragonfly’s arms.

Dragonfly has killed many monsters, and many men, and her hands are as bloodstained as any other Witcher’s, and she has never done anything better with them than cradling Livi close, stroking her back to make her hum in pleasure, kneading her knuckles gently against the line of Livi’s spine, a rhythmic caress as much for Dragonfly as it is for Livi. She can’t help the low rumble of pleasure in her chest, a soft constant sound like distant thunder in the mountains.

Livi finally pulls away again with a little stifled yawn and tucks her head back under Dragonfly’s chin, sighing in contentment, and after a few minutes, to Dragonfly’s astonished delight, she _falls asleep_. Gods, the _trust_ \- Dragonfly’s chest hurts with adoration and a fierce, consuming desire to _gut_ anyone who ever dares even _look_ wrong at her lovely Livi.

There is no one around to kill, though, so instead she stands, cradling Livi close, and carries her down to Livi’s rooms, settling her in the bed and tugging her dancing slippers off carefully before spreading the heavy fur blankets over her.

Livi stirs briefly, and smiles up at Dragonfly through her eyelashes. “G’night, my lioness,” she whispers, and Dragonfly bends and brushes a kiss against her lips, helpless against that sweet smile.

“Goodnight, my lovely Livi,” she says, and Livi snuggles down into the bed with a sound of utter contentment and is asleep again before Dragonfly has finished pinching out the candle on the bedside table.

Dragonfly goes back to her own rooms, and sprawls out on the bed, kicking her boots off, and stares up at the ceiling for a while, licking her lips now and then to taste the remnants of Livi’s salt-sweet kisses.

Gods, she’s so fucking _gone_ on this girl. And Livi -

Somehow, gods only know how, Livi likes her _back_.

*

Oliwia wakes up in her own bed, and for a moment she can’t quite remember _why_ she’s so very happy, and then she _does_ remember, and lies there with her fingers pressed to her lips for a few moments, blushing and grinning up at the ceiling. Dragonfly _kissed_ her. Dragonfly said she was lovely and clever and stubborn and sweet, and _kissed_ her.

And it was _so much better_ than her few fumbling kisses back in Tretogor. Not just because Dragonfly so clearly knows what she’s doing _much_ better than any of the boys in Tretogor did, but because - because Oliwia really, genuinely _wanted_ to kiss Dragonfly. She’s just - she’s so - she’s _gorgeous_ , and kind, and brave, and gentle, and -

And everything Oliwia ever dreamed about in a true knight come to rescue her, except _better_ , because she’s real.

This - well, this has got to be what Dragonfly meant, when she said she preferred women, and Oliwia - she would never have even _guessed_ , back in Redania, never have even dreamed it was an _option_ , but here in Kaer Morhen where the Warlord has a male consort _and_ a male lover, where nobody seems to _care_ who anyone takes to their bed so long as everyone is pleased to be there - well. Oliwia had far rather be wrapped in _Dragonfly’s_ arms than in anyone else’s, would rather dance with her and sit with her and _kiss_ her than any man she’s ever met. Dragonfly is gorgeous and sweet and prickly and _marvelous_ , much more so than any of the boys in Tretogor or even any of the Witchers here in Kaer Morhen. So if that’s preferring women, well, she definitely _does_.

Oliwia gets up and gathers her bathing things in a happy daze, and spends the whole bath _and_ all of breakfast grinning rather ridiculously at the people around her, who all grin back, apparently just pleased to see her in a good mood. After breakfast, she follows Milena up to the room where the castle’s seamstresses work, and settles in with a pile of mending. Milena picks up her own embroidery and smiles at the other seamstresses, and they work in quiet contentment for a while before Milena finally murmurs, “So, you look like the cat who got the cream, darling; dare I ask?”

“Dragonfly,” Oliwia sighs happily.

Milena chuckles. “Ah, she finally said something? Good. In Redania I’d have warned you to mind your reputation, spending time with her. Here in Kaer Morhen? Aiden says she’s a _good_ person, if prickly as any hedgehog, and I’ve never heard aught but good of her from others, and no one here cares one way or another who you take as a lover, so long as everyone involved is pleased by it.”

“Thank you,” Oliwia says, and takes a few more stitches. She’s mending one of the princess’s tunics: how the girl managed to rip one entire side open, Oliwia can’t imagine. “But - ah - oh, drat it all, Milena, you know as well as I do what we’re taught, and what we aren’t. What do two women even _do_ , beyond kissing?”

“I,” says Milena, and then pauses. “You know, I was about to say I hadn’t the faintest idea,” she continues after a long moment, “and then I realized I probably _do_ have a fairly good idea, actually.”

“ _How?_ ” Oliwia blurts, actually dropping her needle in surprise. _Milena_ , knowing what women do together in bed?

“Not from personal experience,” Milena says, shrugging a little. “I have no preference for women.” She glances over at the other seamstresses. Mistress Aniela grins back; the other three women appear to be entirely engrossed in their work. “But - well. Between the books Jaskier’s loaned me, and Lambert’s...ah...creativity, I can probably venture some guesses.”

Mistress Aniela chuckles. “Witchers are _very_ creative,” she says, and all the other seamstresses look up and nod enthusiastically. Oliwia can feel her cheeks heating. She didn’t quite mean this to become a public conversation.

She definitely learns a lot over the next three hours, though. The seamstresses - peasants all, without the delicate senses of noble propriety which all of Oliwia’s _former_ companions had - have no apparent qualms about describing the things they’ve gotten up to with various and assorted Witchers, and Oliwia thanks her dark skin for concealing her constant blush and listens intently.

She’s still blushing at dinner, and Dragonfly gives her a slightly worried look. “You smell odd.”

“I had a very enlightening and extremely embarrassing conversation,” Oliwia says, and Dragonfly shrugs and wraps an arm around her and lets Oliwia tuck her head into the curve of her neck. It’s safe here, surrounded by Dragonfly’s warmth, the strength of her arm, the slight mineral smell of the hot springs still clinging to her from her morning bath. It’s the safest place in the world.

She’s sorting papers in Eskel’s office that afternoon, writing the information from years-old grain reports into the big ledgers Jan had made for her, and it doesn’t involve much _thinking_ , so she lets herself actually consider what the seamstresses and Milena described. Does she want to _do_ anything more than kissing? Because oh, she definitely wants to kiss Dragonfly again - wants to spend _hours_ kissing her, wrapped up in her arms, cuddling into the glorious warmth of her. But more than that?

Dragonfly’s hands are long-fingered and scarred and beautiful, and her skin is pale and surprisingly soft where it isn’t scarred, and she’s sleek and elegant as a lioness, gorgeous as a song - maybe not by the standards of the nobles Oliwia’s spent her life around, but certainly by _Oliwia’s_ standards. She looks like the warrior she is, far more dangerous than any human soldier or knight, more dangerous even than the monsters that lurk in the darkness - and yet Oliwia has never been scared of her, not even the moment they met, Oliwia down on her knees in the dusty street of a nameless town with Dragonfly looming over her, not even when Dragonfly came to find her with her eyes black with potions and her armor stained with the blood of monsters.

Has wanted to kiss her for a _while_ , even if she never quite admitted it to herself.

Eskel clears his throat gently. “Ah,” he says, and Oliwia looks up from her ledgers. “Just, ah, so’s you know, Livi - lust has a very distinct scent.”

“What?” Oliwia asks, startled out of her distraction.

“Oh dear,” Eskel says, and rubs a hand over his scarred cheek. “Nobody’s warned you that Witchers can smell emotions yet?”

Oliwia puts her hands over her face. “Oh, _gods_.”

“It’s fine!” Eskel says hastily. “It doesn’t - it doesn’t _bother_ me, I spend so much time around Jaskier that honestly it’s almost a constant background smell anyhow, I just - thought you should know -” He breaks off and shakes his head, chuckling ruefully. “I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you. You and Dragonfly have figured yourselves out, then?”

“There _really_ aren’t any secrets in Kaer Morhen, are there?” Oliwia asks from behind her hands.

“Very few,” Eskel says. “Though ask Jaskier sometime about the utter ridiculous mess that was him getting me and Geralt to realize we were in love.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Oliwia says, eyes going wide as she drops her hands. “ _That’s_ why there aren’t any spies here! I have been _wondering_ how you do that!”

Eskel chuckles. “Yep. We can smell lies, fear, _guilt_ \- all sorts of things. Comes in handy, and frustrates the _hell_ out of all our enemies. Does mean we tend to always have our noses in each other’s love lives, though - it _is_ Dragonfly for you, right?”

Oliwia nods and covers her face with her hands again.

“Hm,” Eskel says, and she peeks through her fingers at him. He gives her a crooked smile. “Dragonfly’s a fine Witcher, and a good person - though if you tell her I said so, she’s likely to try to stab me just to be contrary, so I’d be obliged if you didn’t.”

Oliwia giggles. “I won’t, then,” she says, and lets her hands fall. “Nobody - nobody cares, here, if it’s two men or two women or - or -”

“Or,” Eskel agrees, still grinning. “So long as you’re happy, nobody cares. Witchers...don’t have the luxury of being picky about love. It’s new enough that we’ve had the luxury of having love at _all_. We won’t deny any of our brothers - or sisters - what happiness they can find.”

“Oh,” Oliwia says, and bites her lip. The sorrow - the deep, _ancient_ sorrow - in those words is staggering to contemplate. “I want to make Dragonfly happy.”

Eskel nods. “Then I expect you shall,” he says, and thank the _gods_ goes back to his own paperwork, and Oliwia bends to her record-keeping and tries very hard _not_ to think about how much she likes kissing Dragonfly, because even if Eskel says it’s alright, she doesn’t want the whole office smelling of her - of her _lust_.

Good noble daughters aren’t even supposed to _feel_ lust, according to all the lessons Oliwia ever got, but good noble daughters _also_ don’t run away to the Witchers on the night before their weddings, so she’s rather thrown _that_ out the window. She grins down at the parchments in front of her. To _hells_ with ‘good noble daughter,’ then. She’ll be a proper inhabitant of Kaer Morhen, instead, and a proper inhabitant of Kaer Morhen keeps her Witcher _happy_.

That night after supper, instead of staying for Jaskier’s songs, she gives Dragonfly a hopeful look, and Dragonfly grins and brings her up to the battlements again, and Oliwia settles in her - her beloved Witcher’s lap, and presses a kiss to Dragonfly’s cheek, and says, softly, “I don’t know how much more than kissing I’m ready for, but - but I want to be yours, Dragonfly, your lady, and you my lioness.”

Dragonfly’s pupils blow wide. “I shall be your lioness forever, lovely Livi,” she rasps, and cups a hand to Oliwia’s cheek, curling her other arm around Oliwia’s waist. “And I will kiss you til the fucking _stars_ fall, if you like, and never ask for more.”

Oliwia beams and snuggles closer, safe in her lioness’s embrace. “Then kiss me,” she says, and Dragonfly bends her head and does.

Oliwia closes her eyes and throws herself wholeheartedly into love.

*

Three days later, the White Wolf stands up at the end of supper and announces that their investigation of King Vizimir has discovered many breaches of the treaty, and the Witchers of Kaer Morhen must prepare - again - for war.

“White Wolf!” the Witchers reply, and Livi startles at the sound, eyes wide.

“Hah,” Cedric says, under the ensuing commotion. “Pay up!”

“It hasn’t been three weeks yet,” Vesper argues, and Dragonfly rolls her eyes at her siblings and presses a kiss to Livi’s forehead.

“Tell you what,” she murmurs, as the Cat table dissolves into cheerful bickering. “I’ll bring you Velen’s head.”

“No, thank you,” Livi says, looking up at her with wide and worried eyes. “Just come back safely.”

“I promise,” Dragonfly says, and seals the promise with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the incomparable RoS13, who improved this story immeasurably!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, and support; I can't tell you how much it means to me. Please feel welcome to come and say hello on tumblr (inexplicifics) or discord (inexplicifics #2690).

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